“What about?” said Mother Gaillarde, appearing suddenly from the passage to my Lady’s rooms.
“Sister Gaillarde, this is very strange conduct of you!” said Mother Ada. “I ordered Sister Roberga to the Infirmary.”
“You did, Sister, and I altered your order. I am your superior, I believe?”
Mother Ada, who is usually very pale, went red, and murmured something which I could not hear.
“Nonsense!” said Mother Gaillarde.
To my unspeakable astonishment, Mother Ada burst into tears. She has so many times told the children, and not seldom the Sisters, that tears were a sign of weakness, and unworthy of reasonable, not to say religious, women—that they ought to be shed in penitence alone, or in grief at a slight offered to holy Church, that I could only suppose Mother Gaillarde had been guilty of some profanity.
“It is very hard!” sobbed Mother Ada. “That you should set yourself up in that way, when I was professed on the very same day as you—”
“What has that to do with it?” asked Mother Gaillarde.
“And my Lady shows you much more favour than she does me: only to-day you have been in her rooms twice!”
“I wish she would send for you,” said Mother Gaillarde, “for it is commonly to waste time over some sort of fiddle-faddle that I despise. You are heartily welcome to it, I can tell you! Now, come, Sister Ada, don’t be silly and set a bad example. It is all nonsense, and you know it.”