“We have just finished,” said Sister Paul, entering readily enough. “The other lady who is staying here insisted upon supping in the guests’ refectory—out of curiosity perhaps, poor thing—and I met her on the stairs as she was coming up.”
“Are she and I the only ones here?” Unorna asked carelessly.
“Yes. There is no one else, and she only came this morning. You see it is still the carnival season in the world. It is in Lent that the great ladies come to us, and then we have often not a room free.”
The nun smiled sadly, shaking her head again, in a way that seemed habitual with her.
“After all,” she added, as Unorna said nothing, “it is better that they should come then, rather than not at all, though I often think it would be better still if they spent carnival in the convent and Lent in the world.”
“The world you speak of would be a gloomy place if you had the ordering of it, Sister Paul!” observed Unorna with a little laugh.
“Ah, well! I daresay it would seem so to you. I know little enough of the world as you understand it, save for what our guests tell me—and, indeed, I am glad that I do not know more.”
“You know almost as much as I do.”
The sister looked long and earnestly into Unorna’s face as though searching for something. She was a thin, pale woman over forty years of age. Not a wrinkle marked her waxen skin, and her hair was entirely concealed under the smooth head-dress, but her age was in her eyes.
“What is your life, Unorna?” she asked suddenly. “We hear strange tales of it sometimes, though we know also that you do great works of charity. But we hear strange tales and strange words.”