“I always think that it depends so much,” said Lady Argent cryptically, and with the diffidence which she always brought to any opinion that differed from her friend’s. “But, of course, when I think of Frances, poor little darling, though I can’t think why I call her poor, for she’s far better off than we are, and must have a much higher place in Heaven than one can ever hope for oneself—but there it is, Bertie, I am quite sure that she was a very privileged soul in every possible way.”
“Now I’m going to shock you,” declared Bertha with a kind of deliberate enjoyment in her tone, “but I should have had a much higher opinion of Frances if she’d given up her own way and stayed quietly at home until she was of an age to judge for herself. Oh yes, my dear, I know it’s a dreadful thing to say now, but I’m nothing if not outspoken, as you know, and I can’t pretend—it isn’t in me. One looks upon Francie as a little victim, and so she was, poor child, but it was all owing to her own self-will.”
Lady Argent flushed, looked doubtful, and then said gently and very characteristically:
“So brave of you, Bertie dear, to be so unconventional and say it all out, because of course I know you loved her just as if she’d been your very own. Only you know it really was a vocation, if ever there was one, and Father Anselm was very much impressed with her, and told me so himself long before there was any question of her entering. Such a very holy man, Bertie, and extremely clever. Plain chant, you know, and all that kind of thing—so wonderful, I always think, though of course I’m no judge at all, since I never really like good music—only tunes I’ve known all my life, which are not plain chant at all, as you may imagine, since they’ve only revived it quite within the last few years. The Holy Father wishes it so much, for the Church, which of course makes one like it, though I always think otherwise, it might strike one as the least little bit dreary. So very little tune, you know.”
“Yes, I know what you mean. Sybil, do you know you’re getting very discursive?”
“I dare say, dear,” said Lady Argent placidly, “a train of thought is such a very difficult thing to follow, I always think—I mean another person’s, of course. One’s own is naturally easy enough.”
Bertha did not look as though she shared this conviction—nor did she where the tangled skein of Lady Argent’s meditations was concerned.
“I’ve got a little train of thought in my own head at the present moment,” she said tentatively. “I wonder if you can guess what I’m at, Sybil.”
“No, dear, I’m sure I can’t. I never was the least bit of good at guessing anything at all. Don’t you remember when riddles were so much the fashion, and people were always asking one why did Rider Haggard, and ridiculous questions of that sort? I never could get the answers right, even then, and there was one dreadful thing that dear Fergus was so fond of—about a ton of lead and a ton of feathers. I’m sure you must have heard it, Bertie.”
“I don’t think so—a ton of lead? Are you sure you don’t mean a herring and a half?” laughed Bertha.