Her hand burnt in Lucy's cool clasp. Restlessly, she asked the girl some further questions about her walk.
'I met the Sisters—the nuns—from Selvapendente, on the hill,' said Lucy.
'Such sweet faces some of them have.'
'I don't agree,' said Eleanor petulantly. 'I saw two of them yesterday. They smile at you, but they have the narrowest, stoniest eyes. Their pity would be very difficult to bear.'
A few minutes later Lucy left her for a moment, to give a message to Marie.
'These Christians are hard—hard!' thought Eleanor sharply, closing her tired lids.
Had Father Benecke ever truly weighed her case, her plea at all? Never! It had been the stereotyped answer of the priest and the preacher. Her secret sense resented the fact that he had been so little moved, apparently, by her physical state. It humiliated her that she should have brought so big a word as death into their debate—to no effect. Her thin cheek flushed with shame and anger.
The cracked bell which announced their meals tinkled from the sitting-room.
Eleanor dragged herself to her feet, and stood a moment by the parapet looking into the night.
'I cough less?' she thought. 'Why?—for I get worse every day. That I may make less noise in dying? Well! one would like to go without ugliness and fuss. I might as well be dead now, I am so broken—so full of suffering. How I hide it all from that child! And what is the use of it—of living a single day or hour more?'
* * * * *