Their eyes met steadily.
"Yes," she said. "I believe you to be a friend to France, and to me." A slight flush edged the snowy wimple which framed the lovely oval of her face.
"I am your friend; and I am a friend to France—I say as much as that to you. I say it because of what you are, and because—you are you. But ask me no more, Sister. For men of my profession there are confessionals as secret and as absolute in authority as those which shrive the soul."
He hesitated, his eyes shifted from her to the fresh flowers on the desk, which they had both gathered; he reached over and drew a white blossom from the glass.
"May I take it with me?"
She bent her head in silence.
Then he turned to go through the deadly doorway, carrying his flower in his hand; but, as he walked out into the sunshine, Sister Eila stepped swiftly in front of him, turned on the doorstep, screening him with extended arms.
"This is the best way," she said. "They ought to see quite clearly that I am a Sister of Charity, and they won't fire at me——"
But he tried to push her aside and spring past her:
"Stand clear of me, for God's sake!" he said.