She fasted, and she broke through her fast, and as Lent drew to a close she asked her father if she might make a week’s retreat in a convent at Wimbledon where she had some friends.  There was no need for her at home; it would be at least change of air and she pressed him to allow her to go.  He feared the influence the convent might have upon her, and admitted that his selfishness was largely accountable for this religious reaction.  No doubt she wanted change, she was looking very poorly.  He spoke of the sea, but who was to take her to Brighton or Margate?  The convent seemed the only solution of the difficulty, and he had to consent to her departure.

The retreat was to last four days, but Evelyn begged that she might stay on till Easter Tuesday.  This would give her a clear week away from home, and the improvement that this little change wrought in her was surprising.  The convent had made her cheeks fair as roses, and given her back all her sunny happiness and abundant conversation.  She delighted in telling her father of her week’s experience.  For four days she had not spoken (perhaps that was the reason she was talking so much now), and during these four days they were nearly always in chapel; but somehow it hadn’t seemed long, the services were so beautiful.  The nuns wore grey serge robes and head-dresses, the novices white head-dresses; what had struck her most was the expression of happy content on their faces.

“I wish, father, you had seen them come into church—­their long robes and beautiful white faces.  I don’t think there is anything as beautiful as a nun.”

The mother prioress was a small woman, with an eager manner.  She looked so unimportant that Evelyn had wondered why she had been chosen, but the moment she spoke you came under the spell of her keen, grey eyes and clear voice....  Mother Philippa, the mistress of the novices, was quite different—­stout and middle-aged, and she wore spectacles.  She was beautiful notwithstanding; her goodness was like a soft light upon her face. ...Evelyn paused.  She could not find words to describe her; at last she said—­

“When she comes into the room, I always feel happy.”

She could not say which she liked the better, but branched off into a description of the Carmelite who had given the retreat—­strong, eagle-faced man, with thin hair drawn back from his forehead, and intense eyes.  He wore sandals, and his white frock was tied with a leather belt, and every word he spoke had entered into her heart.  He gave the meditations, which were held in the darkened library.  They could not see each other’s faces; they could only see the white figure at the end of the room.