“As it was impossible for the Mothers to decide I was sent for, and asked whether I thought the experiment would succeed or fail.’  But what experiment?—­I had to ask.  And the Prioress and Mother Hilda were not agreed, their points of view were not the same; mine was, again, a different point of view, mine being, as you know, a determination to conquer a certain thing in my nature which had nearly brought about my ruin, and which, if left unchecked, would bring it about.  Room for doubt there was none, and, after such an escape as mine, one does not hesitate about having recourse to strong remedies.  My remedy was the convent, and, my resolve being to stay in the convent till I had conquered myself, it did not at the time seem to me a falsehood to say that I put myself in the hands of God, and hoped the experiment would succeed.  Mother Mary Hilda, who is very persistent, asked me what I meant by conquering myself, and I answered, a subjugation of that part of me which was repellent to God.  At these words the Prioress’s face lit up, and she said, ’Well, Mother Hilda, I suppose you are satisfied?’ Mother Hilda did not answer, but I could see that she was not satisfied; and I am not satisfied either, for I feel that I am deceiving the nuns.

“But, Monsignor, if a different answer had been given, if I had said that I looked upon the convent as a refuge where a difficult time might be passed, two or three months, it does not seem to me that I would have answered the nuns more truthfully.  The Prioress seems to think with me in this, going so far as to suggest that there are occasions when we do well not to try to say everything, for the very simple reason that we do not know everything—­even about ourselves; and she seemed glad that I had not said more, and took me there and then to her room, and, in the presence of Mother Philippa and Mother Mary Hilda, said, ’Now, we must hide all this fair hair under a little cap.’  I knelt in front of the Prioress, and she put a white cap on my head, and pinned a black veil over it; and when she had done this she drew me to her and kissed me, saying, ’Now you look like my own child, with all your worldly vanities hidden away.  I believe Monsignor Mostyn would hardly know his penitent in her new dress.’

“I think I can see you smile as you read this, and I think I can hear you thinking, ‘Once an actress always an actress.’  But there is not sufficient truth in this criticism to justify it, and if such a thought does cross your mind, I feel you will suppress it quickly in justice to me, knowing, as you must know, that a badge gives courage to the wearer, putting a conviction into the heart that one is not alone, but a soldier in a great army walking in step towards a definite end.  This sounds somewhat grandiloquent, but it seems to me somewhat like the truth.  Trying to get into step is interesting and instructive, and the novitiate, though hardly bearable at times, is better than sitting