"Nobody like Sister Angela ought to teach!" she cried—"you give money to bring pupils to Sister Angela. And she is not well trained. I never heard anyone talk so ignorantly as she does to Augustina. And the children learn nothing, of course—everyone says so."
"And you are so eager to listen to them?" he said, with sparkling eyes.
Then he controlled himself.
"But that is not the point. I humbly admit our teaching is not nearly so good as it might be if we had larger funds to spend upon it. But the point is that I have promised the money, and that a number of arrangements—fresh teachers among them—are already dependent on it. Dearest, won't you recognise my difficulties, and—and help me through them?"
"You make them yourself," she said, drawing back. "There would be none if you did not—hate—your fellow-citizens."
"I hate no one—but I cannot aid and abet the English Church. That is impossible to me. Laura!" He observed her carefully. "I don't understand. Why do you say these things?—why does it hurt you so much?"
"Oh! let me go," she cried, flinging his hand away from her. "Let me go!"
And before he could stop her, she had fled to the door, and disappeared.
* * * * *
Helbeck and Augustina ate a lonely dinner.
"You must have taken Laura too far this afternoon, Alan," said Mrs. Fountain fretfully. "She says she is too tired to come down again to-night—so very unlike her!"