But Molly moved a little nearer the minister.
“Yes,” she agreed slowly, unwillingly almost; “they all do. Father Bonot used to say it over and over. They all come back to the Church to—to die.”
She was shivering.
There was a quick, snapped off h’ah from Mr. Jonas.
Mr. Henderson looked bewildered. “I did not know; then, Mrs. Garnier, you are—”
“I’m a Catholic,” said Molly, a little in wonder.
“Romanist?” said the other gently.
But Molly wasn’t listening, nor would she have known what the distinction meant, had she been. It was Mr. Jonas who gave forth another sound that was almost a snort, and marched off to where King and Alexina were sitting on the step.
Molly watched him go, then glanced around as if to insure aloofness, and leaned forward, her fingers pulling at the edge of her handkerchief.
“You helped him to die, and you’re a priest—one sort of a priest—and I want to tell you—”