She answered me instantly, almost impulsively.
"There is all the difference in the world," she declared. "I am a woman; although I am not old, I know what life is. I know what it would be to give it up. But the child—she knows nothing. She is too young to know what lies before her. As yet her eyes are not opened. Very soon she would be content there."
I shook my head. I did not agree with Lady Delahaye.
"Indeed no!" I protested. "You reckon nothing for disposition. In her heart the song of life is already formed, the joy of it is already stirring in her blood. The convent would be slow torture to her. She shall not go there!"
Lady Delahaye smiled—mirthlessly, yet as one who has some hidden knowledge which she may not share.
"You think yourself her friend," she said. "In reality you are her enemy. If not the convent, then worse may befall her."
I shrugged my shoulders.
"As to that," I said, "we shall see!"
We resumed our walk. Again we were nearing the inn. Lady Delahaye looked at me every now and then curiously. My feeling towards her had grown more and more belligerent.
"You puzzle me, Arnold," she said softly. "After all, Isobel is but a child. What cunning tune can she have played upon your heartstrings that you should espouse her cause with so much fervour? If she were a few years older one could perhaps understand."