“Well, has my faith been rewarded? What have you made of her?”
The sister dropped her eyes a moment. “A good Christian, monsieur.”
Her host dropped his eyes as well; but it was probable that the movement had in each case a different spring. “Yes, and what else?”
He watched the lady from the convent, probably thinking she would say that a good Christian was everything; but for all her simplicity she was not so crude as that. “A charming young lady—a real little woman—a daughter in whom you will have nothing but contentment.”
“She seems to me very gentille,” said the father. “She’s really pretty.”
“She’s perfect. She has no faults.”
“She never had any as a child, and I’m glad you have given her none.”
“We love her too much,” said the spectacled sister with dignity.
“And as for faults, how can we give what we have not? Le couvent n’est pas comme le monde, monsieur. She’s our daughter, as you may say. We’ve had her since she was so small.”
“Of all those we shall lose this year she’s the one we shall miss most,” the younger woman murmured deferentially.