"A nun?" echoed Elizabeth in dismay, "a Catholic nun?"
Nancy did not know what she meant by a Catholic nun. Surely there was only one kind of nun.
"I want to be a nun and live in a temple far away in the mountains," she said.
"You mean a Buddhist nun? You want to live in a temple and worship those ugly idols?"
David had not been more astounded by Edward's wish to have fifty children, while Nancy realized, seeing the amazed faces of her friends, that here lurked between West and East some quicksands of misunderstanding such as with the best will in the world they could not cross. Her desire to be a nun was too slightly defined to be defended in competent speech.
Helen and Elizabeth recognized her difficulty. They were fearful of trespassing on courtesy and did not push their indignation more outspokenly—it was safer to turn for diversion to the mechanical incidents of getting dressed, Nancy's tub-bath, her initiation into the use of a sponge, the manicuring of her nails—but the girl had become in their eyes a tragic heroine whom they were impulsively determined to save.
Mrs. Ferris shared the concern of her daughters and looked compassionately at the two children, whom she felt she had no right to send back to such a travesty of a home. She confided her indignation to Nasmith, thought something ought to be done: it was shameful condemning such a nice, well-behaved boy, such a pretty, really beautiful girl, to live with that immoral old man. He must have kidnapped them; they surely could not be his children—and their mother dead too! How she would have suffered if she had known! Wasn't there a law to prevent such a disgrace? Ronald ought to inquire of the British legation and get Edward and Nancy into safe hands before they were utterly ruined.
But the early breakfast had been finished. There was no excuse for delay. The sorrow of parting was eased by the decision of the twins that they must escort Nancy home and David's prompt statement that he would do the same duty by Edward. The impressionable Patricia was convinced only with difficulty that the road was too long; she wept as though she were parting from lifelong friends. To the inexpressible astonishment of Edward and Nancy, Mrs. Ferris gathered each of them into her motherly arms and kissed them. Would they all expect to do this, Nancy asked herself? Why did nice people have such barbarous customs? She might kiss Helen and Elizabeth, if she saw they were disappointed, but she never could kiss Mr. Beresford and Mr. Nasmith. The prospect called up bitter memories and turned her thoughts in fear to contemplating the anger which her father would visit upon their truancy.
The walk, begun with the care-free abandon of a picnic, grew more and more depressing, despite the merry companionship of the girls, Beresford's comic remarks, and Nasmith's quiet understanding reserve, in which Nancy put more trust than she knew. Nancy endeavored to give in a light-hearted vein the promises the twins were trying to exact, that she should come and see them again, that they might call upon her, that they should do long walks together and write many letters.
"Yes," agreed Nancy, "if my father will let me."