‘Ah, my sister, sometimes,’ murmured the junior votaress.

‘Not to-day, at any rate. We have rested too well here. Que Dieu vous garde, ma fille.’

Their host, while they exchanged kisses with his daughter, went forward to open the door through which they were to pass; but as he did so he gave a slight exclamation, and stood looking beyond. The door opened into a vaulted ante-chamber, as high as a chapel and paved with red tiles; and into this ante- chamber a lady had just been admitted by a servant, a lad in shabby livery, who was now ushering her toward the apartment in which our friends were grouped. The gentleman at the door, after dropping his exclamation, remained silent; in silence too the lady advanced. He gave her no further audible greeting and offered her no hand, but stood aside to let her pass into the saloon. At the threshold she hesitated. ‘Is there any one?’ she asked.

‘Some one you may see.’

She went in and found herself confronted with the two nuns and their pupil, who was coming forward, between them, with a hand in the arm of each. At the sight of the new visitor they all paused, and the lady, who had also stopped, stood looking at them. The young girl gave a little soft cry: ‘Ah, Madame Merle!’

The visitor had been slightly startled, but her manner the next instant was none the less gracious. ‘Yes, it’s Madame Merle, come to welcome you home.’ And she held out two hands to the girl, who immediately came up to her, presenting her forehead to be kissed. Madame Merle saluted this portion of her charming little person and then stood smiling at the two nuns. They acknowledged her smile with a decent obeisance, but permitted themselves no direct scrutiny of this imposing, brilliant woman, who seemed to bring in with her something of the radiance of the outer world.

‘These ladies have brought my daughter home, and now they return to the convent,’ the gentleman explained.

‘Ah, you go back to Rome? I’ve lately come from there. It’s very lovely now,’ said Madame Merle.

The good sisters, standing with their hands folded into their sleeves, accepted this statement uncritically; and the master of the house asked his new visitor how long it was since she had left Rome. ‘She came to see me at the convent,’ said the young girl before the lady addressed had time to reply.

‘I’ve been more than once, Pansy,’ Madame Merle declared. ‘Am I not your great friend in Rome?’

‘I remember the last time best,’ said Pansy, ‘because you told me I should come away.’

‘Did you tell her that?’ the child’s father asked.

‘I hardly remember. I told her what I thought would please her. I’ve been in Florence a week. I hoped you would come to see me.’

‘I should have done so if I had known you were there. One doesn’t know such things by inspiration—though I suppose one ought. You had better sit down.’

These two speeches were made in a particular tone of voice—a tone half-lowered and carefully quiet, but as from habit rather than from any definite need. Madame Merle looked about her, choosing her seat. ‘You’re going to the door with these women? Let me of course not interrupt the ceremony. Je vous salue, mesdames,’⁹ she added, in French, to the nuns, as if to dismiss them.

‘This lady’s a great friend of ours; you will have seen her at the convent,’ said their entertainer. ‘We’ve much faith in her judgement, and she’ll help me to decide whether my daughter shall return to you at the end of the holidays.’