By this time the gentlemen, who had been treating her lightly (O God, how men treat such women!), had left her and, coming arm-in-arm in my direction, with their silk hats tilted a little back, were saying:
"Poor old Aggie! She's off!" "Completely off!" "Is it drink, I wonder?"
And then, seeing me, they said:
"Gad, here's a nice little gal, though!" "No rouge, neither!" "By Jove, no! Her face is as white as a waterlily!"
Seeing that they were wheeling round, and fearing they were going to speak to me, I moved back and so came face to face with the woman, who was standing where they had left her, silent now, and looking after the men with fierce eyes under the fair hair that curled over her forehead.
Then in a moment a memory from the far past swept over me, and I cried, almost as if the name had been forced out of me:
"Sister Angela!"
The woman started, and it seemed for a moment as if she were going to run away. Then she laid hold of me by the arm and, looking searchingly into my face, said:
"Who are you? . . . I know. You are Mary O'Neill, aren't you?"
"Yes."