“To-morrow evening at eight. To-morrow is the fifteenth of December.”
“When do you come out?”
“On the evening of the twenty-fourth.”
“Have you told mamma this?”
“No; please tell her yourself to-morrow.”
“Perhaps mamma will not approve.”
“She knows what it is a question of,” murmured Vittoria; “all Roman ladies know of this retreat in the monastery of Gesù Bambino. Get her to tell you.”
She blushed slightly. He looked at her, and proceeded more gently with the conversation.
“Are there special prayers in this convent, Vittoria? Are special graces asked for?”
“One grace only,” she replied, with downcast eyes; “one grace only of the Divine Son, Marco.”