“You ought to be proud of my career,” said Ursula, still resolutely smiling.
“And, I know, the home-cross is the worst cross,” continued the Dominé, as his eyes involuntarily wandered to a simpering portrait of Josine upon his writing-table. “Attack is not so hard, as all young soldiers soon find out. It is standing patient under fire.”
“You pity me. You encourage me,” said Ursula, with sudden vehemence. “You think I am not to blame. But if I were to blame for my misfortunes? If I were wrong? If I had brought them on myself?” She looked up anxiously.
“I should pity you all the more.”
“Father”—Ursula rose—“do you think I could ever become a criminal?”
“Let him that standeth,” replied the Dominé, “take heed lest he fall.”
“And if he be fallen already?”
“There is no better posture for prayer.”
The little room, so warm, so anheimelnd, grew very still. At that moment, perhaps, Ursula would have confessed everything.
But before she could utter another word the door was thrown violently open, and Miss Mopius, in a red flannel bed-gown and nightcap, rushed over the threshold with a recklessness which entangled her in the Dominé’s paper-basket, and precipitated her, a brilliant bundle of color, on the hearth-rug.