“You will soon be all right again, dear, I hope. But why keep your secret? Why not confide in me?”
“Secret!” she echoed. “It is no secret!”
“Then why not tell me the truth right out? What has upset you?”
Jean clenched her teeth. How could she confess that she was the wife of a notorious thief—a man who had been shot like a dog by the police?
No. Her secret was hers, and it should remain so. Her past from that moment was buried. None, save the Mother Superior at Enghien and the two sisters who had found her in the Tuileries Gardens, knew the truth. And none should now know.
“Really, you are a little too solicitous of my welfare,” she laughed, well feigning amusement at the situation. “I am quite well now. Quite well, I assure you.”
And picking up the old copy of the newspaper, she resumed the wrapping up of the parcel of underclothing which she had made with her own hands for charitable purposes.
And the big bell having clanged out for tea in the refectory, Jean and Sister Gertrude passed arm-in-arm through the long stone corridor to the big, vaulted hall, where all the inmates of the convent had assembled and the Mother Superior was presiding over the four shining tea-urns at the top table.
But Jean sat silent and thoughtfully sipping her tea, heedless of all about her.