"I think so much," she answered, gravely.
"Thus said Father Robesart. Yet he seemed, something doubtful if you have well judged therein, as methought. It were grave matter to blunder over, Mistress Beatrice. There is no coming forth, howsoe'er one may desire it."
"No," she said—and said no more.
Lawrence took another step, and dropped a little of his ceremoniousness to do it.
"Beatrice, dear old friend, is this for your happiness? Not one other word will I speak if you ensure me thereof."
"Happiness is not the only thing," she said in a constrained voice.
"Not so, maybe, for you to think on: yet methinks you might allow for your friends to concern them touching the same."
Beatrice made no reply.
"Are you well assured that our Lord calls you to that life, dear Beatrice? Might it not be better for you, no less than for other, that you should make happy some home and heart, rather than bury yourself in the cloister? Think well of it, ere you cast die that can never be recalled."
"I have thought of it," said Beatrice in rather a hard tone. "I am not wanted otherwhere. Why should I not be a nun?"