“For I yearn for those kisses you gave me once
On the steps by Bakerloo!”
Miss Sinquier crooned caressingly, craning further out.
Under the little old lime trees by the Cathedral door lounged Lady Caroline Dempsey’s Catholic footman.
Miss Sinquier considered him.
In her mind’s eye she saw the impression her own conversion would make in the parochial world.
“Canon Sinquier’s only daughter has gone over to Rome....” Or, “Canon Sinquier’s daughter has taken the veil.” Or, “Miss Sinquier, having suffered untold persecution at the hands of her family, has been received into the Convent of the Holy Dove.”
Her eyes strayed leisurely from the powdered head and weeping shoulder-knots of Lady Caroline Dempsey’s Catholic footman. The lack of movement was oppressive.
Why was not Miss Worrall in her customary collapse being borne senseless to her Gate in the Sacristan’s arms? And why to-night were they not chaunting the Psalms?
Darting out her tongue, Miss Sinquier withdrew her head and resumed her book.