By a common instinct, as they fell into conversation, they began to walk more slowly, side by side.
“Indeed,” said Beatrice, with a slight increase of interest. “Then you were brought up here by the nuns?”
“Not exactly. It was a sort of refuge for me when I was almost a child. I was left here alone, until I was thought old enough to take care of myself.”
There was a little bitterness in her tone, intentional, but masterly in its truth to nature.
“Left by your parents?” Beatrice asked. The question seemed almost inevitable.
“I had none. I never knew a father or a mother.” Unorna’s voice grew sad with each syllable.
They had entered the great corridor in which their apartments were situated, and were approaching Beatrice’s door. They walked more and more slowly, in silence during the last few moments, after Unorna had spoken. Unorna sighed. The passing breath traveling on the air of the lonely place seemed both to invite and to offer sympathy.
“My father died last week,” Beatrice said in a very low tone, that was not quite steady. “I am quite alone—here and in the world.”
She laid her hand upon the latch and her deep black eyes rested upon Unorna’s, as though almost, but not quite, conveying an invitation, hungry for human comfort, yet too proud to ask it.
“I am very lonely, too,” said Unorna. “May I sit with you for a while?”