"What are you doing here if you haven't a holiday?" their grandfather asked.
"Visiting you, sir," Diavolo answered in his peculiar drawl, which always left you uncertain as to whether he intended an impertinence or not. He was lying at full length on the floor facing his grandfather, with the back of his head resting on the low window sill, and the old gentleman was looking at him admiringly. He was not at all sure of the import of Diavolo's last reply, but had the tact not to pursue the subject.
The priest had remained standing, with his hands folded upon the book he had been reading, and a set smile upon his thin intellectual face, behind which it was easy to see that the busy thoughts came crowding.
Angelica turned on him suddenly, flinging herself from the arm of her grandfather's chair on to a low seat which stood with its back to the window, in order to do so.
"I say, Papa Ricardo, I want to ask you," she began. "What do you think of that Baronne de Chantal, whom you call Sainte, when her son threw himself across the threshold of their home to prevent her leaving the house, and she stepped across his body to go and be religieuse?"
"It was the heroic act of a holy woman," the priest replied.
"But I thought Home was the woman's sphere?" said Angelica.
"Yes," the priest rejoined, "unless God calls them to religion."
"But did God give her all those children?" Angelica pursued.
"Yes, indeed," said Father Ricardo. "Children are the gift of God."