There was something warm and caressing in her laughter, short and low as it was, that made Dalrymple look at those full white hands of hers and wonder whether they might not be warm and caressing too.
"Will you sing a little louder than the rest next Sunday afternoon, Sister Maria?" he asked. "I will be in the church."
"That would be a great sin," she answered, but not very gravely.
"Why?"
"Because I should have to be thinking about you instead of about the holy service. Do you not know that? But nothing is sinful according to you Protestants, I suppose. At all events, come to the church."
"Do you think we are all devils, Sister Maria?" asked Dalrymple, with a smile.
"More or less." She laughed again. "They say in the town that you have a compact with the devil."
"Do you hear what is said in the town?"
"Sometimes. The gardener brings the gossip and tells it to the cook. Or Sora Nanna tells it to me when she brings the linen. There are a thousand ways. The people think we know nothing because they never see us. But we hear all that goes on."
Dalrymple said nothing in answer for some time. Then he spoke suddenly and rather hoarsely.