“No,” was the reply. “I have been reserving it for some afternoon when we do not feel very energetic. Unfortunately, we cannot get inside the Abbey now, though.”
“Why?” asked Christian, without looking towards Hilda. He had discovered that Signor Bruno was attempting to keep up a conversation with his hostess, while he took in that which was passing at the other end of the room. The old man was seated, and his face was within the radius of light cast by a shaded lamp. Christian, who stood, was in the shade.
“Because it is a French monastery,” replied Molly. “Here,” she added, “is a flower for your coat, as you say the button-hole is warped by constant pinning in of stalks.”
“Thanks,” he replied, stooping a little in order that she could reach the button-hole of his coat. She was in front of him, directly between him and Signor Bruno; but he could see over her head. “What sort of monastery is it?” he continued conversationally. “I did not know that there were any establishments of that sort in England.”
Hilda looked up rather sharply from an illustrated newspaper she happened to be studying. She knew that he was not adhering strictly to the truth. From her point of vantage behind the newspaper she continued to watch Christian, and she realised during the minutes that followed, that this was indeed the brilliant young journalist of whose fame Farrar had spoken as already known in London.
Signor Bruno's conversation with Mrs. Carew became at this moment somewhat muddled.
“There, you see,” said Molly vivaciously, “we endeavour to interest him by retailing the simple annals of our neighbourhood, and his highness simply disbelieves us!”
“Not at all,” Christian hastened to add, with a laugh. “It simply happened that I was surprised. It shall not occur again. But tell me, what sort of monastery is it? Dominican? Franciscan? Carmelite?—”
“Oh, goodness! I do not know.”
“Perhaps,” said Christian, advancing towards the Italian—“perhaps Signor Bruno can tell us.”