“Then make it so! And then come and give me a few moments’ conversation in the saloon. For the use of which,” Mr. Brentin gravely added, “I do not propose to pay half a dollar.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” And off we bustled towards Spithead.
“Where will you sit, Miss Rybot?” Masters asked, humbly.
“Anywhere out of the wind,” was the indifferent answer; “and be good enough, please, to leave me to myself for a little. I wish to collect my thoughts, and you have, no doubt, a good deal to talk over with your friend.”
The unfortunate Masters found her a sheltered seat (which she soon left and selected another), wrapped her legs in a rug (which she promptly threw off), and then came and sat himself down by me.
“She’s an orphan,” he whispered, biting his nails, “and has to teach. I met her at Seaview. She has forty pounds a year of her own, and has one little nasty pupil, whom she loathes. She’s a strict Roman Catholic, and talks of entering a convent, but she’s a good deal in debt, and wants to pay off her debts first. She talks of going to Monte Carlo and winning enough at the tables to pay her debts, and then becoming a Poor Clare.”
“A Poor Clare?”
“They’re a strictly enclosed order,” he groaned; “they keep a perpetual fast, have no beds, and go barefooted. They spend all their time in prayer and meditation, and live on alms.”
“Then they don’t marry, I suppose?”
“Don’t I tell you they’re strictly enclosed?”