“I’m afraid I’m not prepared to do that.”
“I never dreamed of having the bad taste to propose it,” said I. “I merely stated the only alternative to my guardianship.”
“I should be willing—only too willing—to contribute towards her support,” said Mr. Robinson.
I thanked him. But of course this was impossible. I might as well have allowed the good man to pay my gas bill.
“I know of a nice convent home kept by the Little Sisters of St. Bridget,” said he, tentatively.
“If it were St. Bridget herself,” said I, “I would agree with pleasure. She is a saint for whom I have a great fascination. She could work miracles. When an Irish chieftain made her a facetious grant of as much land as she could cover with her mantle, she bade four of her nuns each take a corner and run north, west, south and east, until her cloak covered several roods. She could have done the same with the soul of Carlotta. But the age of miracles is past, and I fear the Little Sisters would only break their gentle hearts over her. She is an extraordinary creature.”
I know I ought to have given some consideration to the proposal; but I think I must suffer from chronic inflammation of the logical faculty. It revolted against the suggested congruity of Carlotta and the Little Sisters of St. Bridget.
“What can she be like?” asked the old man, wonderingly.
“Would it pain you to see her?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, in a low voice. “It would. But perhaps it would bring me nearer to my unhappy boy. He seems so far away.”