“How odd that you should speak of justice. Brigit was talking in the same strain only yesterday. It's a gloomy strain—for a young girl.”
“I don't think so. One shouldn't sentimentalise. Life goes on, it doesn't halt: it's a constant development. I haven't much patience with——“
He stopped short.
“Pray finish the sentence.”
“Well, I haven't much patience with those who want to linger, and look back, and cheat time. One must get along.”
Pensée felt annoyed, and began to talk coldly about the housing of the poor, and winters which she had spent in Florence.
“Here are your letters,” exclaimed her companion suddenly.
She turned them over with languid interest, murmuring unconsciously to herself the names of her correspondents.
“From dear Ethel. Why is she in Edinburgh? I hope her father isn't ill again. Alice. Uncle. Mrs. Lanark. Mary Butler. Prince d'Alchingen. That tiresome Miss Bates. Mr. Seward.” She paused and flushed deeply. “Robert.”
Then she turned to Father Foster with shining eyes.