It was the first time he had used the dear name by which her mother had called her, in spite of his threat to do so, and though she felt the reproof of his tone, she thrilled when he spoke it. “Do you know,” he began, “that your comments on your aunt are, to say the least in poor taste?”
She flushed deeply, but there was defiance in her voice and in the tilt of her head. “Why don’t you say outright that I am a vulgar, ill-bred, common little thing?” she demanded.
“Because I don’t think it.”
“Oh, yes, you do,” she retorted angrily. “I just wish you had to live with Aunt Amelia! It might shake a little of the priggishness out of you! You don’t seem to understand that I would go mad if I couldn’t take it out in ridiculing her.”
His face softened, but before he could speak, she said in a hard, expressionless tone, entirely devoid of the passion which had just marked her utterances: “You will be leaving soon to enter your monastery. I suppose it is proper to wish you bon voyage, as one does people about to embark upon a long journey.”
His face went from red to white, and he studied his shoes, as though trying to make up his mind to speak. Then he said slowly and hesitatingly, “Let us not talk of that now. What are you reading?” and reaching over, he lifted the book from the bench beside her where she had dropped it on his approach.
“Nothing which would interest you,” she said tartly; “just the story of a son’s devotion to his mother.”
“What do you mean by that?” he demanded sternly.
“Oh, nothing at all,” was the light reply; “you are more interested, are you not, in foot-washing, shaven heads and cowls?”
He rose instantly, his face dark with passion, but as he talked, it cleared, till in the end it was serene and calm. “I understand you now. You take this means, this cruel means of wounding me, so that I would know of your indifference. I have been having a mighty battle with myself, as between my church and my love for you. And, though I should blush to own it, my love won.”