“To Avellino?” she exclaimed, with interest. “Oh, I know it very well. I went there once with Fabio when I was first married.”
“And were you happy there?” I inquired, coldly.
I remembered the time she spoke of—a time of such unreasoning, foolish joy!
“Happy? Oh, yes; everything was so new to me then. It was delightful to be my own mistress, and I was so glad to be out of the convent.”
“I thought you liked the nuns?” I said.
“Some of them—yes. The reverend mother is a dear old thing. But Mère Marguerite, the Vicaire as she is called—the one that received you—oh, I do detest her!”
“Indeed! and why?”
The red lips curled mutinously.
“Because she is so sly and silent. Some of the children here adore her; but they must have something to love, you know,” and she laughed merrily.
“Must they?”