She evolved at last a halting, stammered, lifeless account of the prise d’habit, of Mrs. Mulholland’s officiousness, of the afternoon in the garden with Frances, and the interview with the novice-mistress.
“They’re satisfied with her, then?”
“Oh yes. The nuns told Lady Argent that Frances was trés docile—tout a fait l’habitude de l’obéissance.”
“Aha!” laughed Bertha. “She owes something to her wicked old heathen guardian, after all, then. I venture to think that l’habitude de l’obéissance was picked up at Porthlew.”
“Nonsense,” was the contribution of Mrs. Tregaskis’ husband to the conversation. “Frances was submissive by nature, and it would have cost her a great deal more to disobey than to give in.”
Frederick was too much apt to speak of his wife’s departed protégée in the past tense, but Rosamund shot him a look of gratitude for the understanding which his speech seemed to denote.
“She may have been submissive, Frederick,” his wife said quietly, “but you don’t have to look very far to see that Frances was self-righteous enough to blind her to her own self-will. Look at the way she left this house.”
“She thought she was doing right,” said Rosamund quickly.
“I know that perfectly well. I understand Frances, Rosamund, quite as well as you do—better, perhaps, since I’m an experienced old lady who’s seen something of human nature. But that’s neither here nor there. We’ve discussed the ethics of the case often enough. The child’s taken her own way, and I want to hear something about how she’s getting on.”
“I think she’s happy,” said Rosamund rather doggedly. Bertha looked doubtful, and said with rather a curt laugh: “Well, I suppose getting one’s own way makes up for a good deal.”