On every wall was a crucifix, and at each corner in a small niche stood a statue of the Holy Virgin.
They passed by the fine chapel, and Jean saw the long, stained-glass windows, the rows of empty chairs, and the Roman Catholic altar, the burning candles reflecting upon the burnished gilt, and the arum lilies in the big brass vases on either side.
At last, shown into a large bare room, the walls of which were panelled half-way up—a room bare, austere, and comfortless, with an utter lack of any attempt at decoration—Jean sank into a big leather-covered arm-chair, and one of the sisters took the old black shawl from her shoulders.
A few minutes later there entered an elderly, stately woman, with hard mouth and aquiline nose, yet in whose eyes was a pleasant, sympathetic expression—a woman very calm, very possessed, even austere. She was the Mother Superior.
With her was another sister, also a probationer in the white dress, big apron, and cap with strings, proclaiming her to be a nurse.
The two sisters who had found the poor girl introduced her to the Mother Superior, who at first looked askance at her and whose manner was by no means cordial.
She heard all in silence, gazing coldly at the girl seated in the chair.
Then she questioned her in a hard, unmusical voice.
“You have been brought up in London—eh?”