"Your whole life."
"But one cannot settle one's life in an Ave Maria," she said, which means in the twinkling of an eye. And she looked at him by the dim light and laughed again. For she was young and they had always made holiday together, and laughed.
"Did you mean that letter which you wrote to my father about going into religion?"
"Oh, I don't know. I suppose so. I meant it at the time, Marcos. It seems to be the only thing to do. Everything seems to point to it. Every sermon I hear. Everything I read. Everything any one ever says to me. But now--" she turned and looked at him, "--now that I see you again I cannot think how I did it."
"Am I so very worldly?"
"Of course you are. And yet I suppose you have some chance of salvation. It seems to me that you have--a little chance, I give you. But it seems hard on other people. Oh, Marcos, I hate the idea of it. And yet they are so kind to me--all except Sor Teresa. If anybody could make me hate it, she would. She is so unkind and gives me all the punishments she can."
Marcos smiled slowly and with great pity, of which men have a better understanding than any woman. He thought he knew why Sor Teresa was cruel.
"They are all so kind. And I know they are good. And they take it for granted that the religious life is the only possible one. One cannot help becoming convinced even against one's will."
She turned to him suddenly and laid her two hands on his arm.
"Oh, Marcos," she whispered, with a sort of sob of apprehension. "Can you not do something for me?"