“Concha! Are you really going to do this terrible thing?”
“I must ... it’s what Teresa said ... I mean ... it would be so mad not to!”
“I see—it would be mad not to sell Jesus for thirty pieces of silver. Well, in that case, there is nothing more to be said ... and you have your father and sister as supporters,” and again she laughed bitterly.
Concha’s face again hardened; and, with a shrug, she left the room.
There was silence for a few seconds, and Teresa glanced mechanically at the letter she held in her hand: “... won’t think it frightful cheek ... go rather gently while I’m at the Staff College ... my uncle ... Drumsheugh ... allowance ... will try so hard to make Concha happy ... my uncle ... Drumsheugh ... hope Mrs. Lane won’t mind frightfully ... the Scottish Episcopal Church ... very high, it doesn’t acknowledge the Pope, that’s the only difference.”
Suddenly the Doña began to sob convulsively: “She ... is ... my child, my baby! Oh, none of you understand ... none of you understand! It’s my fault ... I have sinned ... I ought never to have married a Protestant. My Pepa ... my poor Pepa ... she knows now ... she would stop it if she could. Oh, what have I done?”
Teresa kneeled down beside her, and took one of her cold hands in hers; she herself was cold and trembling—she had only once before, at Pepa’s death, seen her mother break down.
Dick came to her other side, and gently stroked her hair: “My dear, you’ve nothing to blame yourself for,” he said, “and there are really lots of good Protestants, you know. And I’ve met some very broad-minded Roman Catholics, too, who took a ... a ... sensible view of it all. These Spanish priests are apt....”
“Spanish priests!” she cried, sitting up in her chair and turning blazing eyes upon him, “what do you know of Spanish priests? You, an elderly Don Juan Tenorio!”
Dick flushed: “Well, I have heard you know ... those priests of yours aren’t all so mighty immaculate,” he said sullenly.