“I should have done so if I had known you were there. One doesn’t know such things by inspiration—though I suppose one ought. You had better sit down.”
These two speeches were made in a particular tone of voice—a tone half-lowered and carefully quiet, but as from habit rather than from any definite need. Madame Merle looked about her, choosing her seat. “You’re going to the door with these women? Let me of course not interrupt the ceremony. Je vous salue, mesdames,” she added, in French, to the nuns, as if to dismiss them.
“This lady’s a great friend of ours; you will have seen her at the convent,” said their entertainer. “We’ve much faith in her judgement, and she’ll help me to decide whether my daughter shall return to you at the end of the holidays.”
“I hope you’ll decide in our favour, madame,” the sister in spectacles ventured to remark.
“That’s Mr. Osmond’s pleasantry; I decide nothing,” said Madame Merle, but also as in pleasantry. “I believe you’ve a very good school, but Miss Osmond’s friends must remember that she’s very naturally meant for the world.”
“That’s what I’ve told monsieur,” sister Catherine answered. “It’s precisely to fit her for the world,” she murmured, glancing at Pansy, who stood, at a little distance, attentive to Madame Merle’s elegant apparel.
“Do you hear that, Pansy? You’re very naturally meant for the world,” said Pansy’s father.
The child fixed him an instant with her pure young eyes. “Am I not meant for you, papa?”
Papa gave a quick, light laugh. “That doesn’t prevent it! I’m of the world, Pansy.”
“Kindly permit us to retire,” said sister Catherine. “Be good and wise and happy in any case, my daughter.”