“Very dear Lady,” she said, “God loveth sinners; and He must then love other than nuns. Shall they not love Him back, though they be not in cloister?”
“Thou hadst better win in cloister thyself, when thou art rid of me,” was the answer, in a tone which was a mixture of languor and sarcasm. “Thou art scarce fit to tarry without, old woman.”
“I will do that which God shall show me,” said Perrote, calmly. “Dame, were it not well your Grace should essay to sleep?”
“Nay, not so. I have my Jeanne to look at, that I have not seen for five-and-twenty years. I shall sleep fast enough anon. Daughter, art thou a happy woman, or no?”
Lady Basset answered by a shake of the head. “Why, what aileth thee? Is it thy baron, or thy childre?”
“I have no child, Mother.”
The Countess heard the regretful yearning of the tone.
“Thank the saints,” she said. “Thou wert better. Soothly, to increase objects for love is to increase sorrow. If thou have no childre, they’ll never be torn from thee, nor they will never break thine heart by ill behaving.
And most folks behave ill in this world. Ha, chétife! ’tis a weary, dreary place, this world, as ever a poor woman was in. Hast thou a good man to thy baron, child?”