“But if she is given the white veil,” the Prioress answered sternly, “she will be induced to remain.  The fact of her taking the white veil is a great inducement, and a year hence who knows—­”

“Well, dear Mother, you will act, I am sure, for the best.  Perhaps it would have been better if you had not consulted me; but, having consulted me, I had to tell you what I think.  I am aware that in practical matters I am but a very poor judge.  Remember, I passed, like Veronica, from the schoolroom to the convent.  But you know the world.”

“It is very kind of you to admit so much; but it seems to me, Hilda, you are only admitting that much so as to give a point to your contention, or what I suppose is your contention—­that those who never knew the world may attain to a more intense spirituality than poor women such as myself and Mother Philippa here, who did not enter the convent as early in life as you did... but who renounced the world.”

The sharp tone of the Prioress’s voice, when she mentioned Mother Philippa’s name, awoke the nun, who had been dozing.

“Well, Mother Philippa, what is your opinion?”

“It seems to me,” the nun answered, now wide awake, “that it is a matter for Evelyn to decide.  You think I was asleep, but I wasn’t; I heard everything you said.  You were discussing your own scruples of conscience, which seem to me quite beside the question.  Our conscience has nothing to do with the matter; it is all a question for Evelyn to decide herself... as soon as she is well, of course.”

“And she is now quite well.  I will see her to-morrow on the subject.”

On this the Prioress rose to her feet, and the other two nuns understood that the interview was at an end.

“Dear Mother, I know how great your difficulties are,” said Mother Hilda, “and I am loth to oppose your wishes in anything.  I know how wise you are, how much wiser than we—­but however foolishly I may appear to be acting, you will understand that I cannot act differently, feeling as I do.”

“I understand that, Hilda; we all must act according to our lights.  And now we must go to bed, we are breaking all the rules of the house.”

XXV

After breakfast Veronica came to Evelyn, saying that dear Mother would like to speak to her.  Evelyn nodded, and went gaily to see the Prioress in her room on the ground-floor.  Its long French windows, opening on to the terrace-walk, appealed to her taste; and the crowded writing-table, on which stood a beautiful crucifix in yellow ivory.  Papers and tin boxes were piled in one corner.  But there was no carpet, and only one armchair, over-worn and shabby.  There were flowers in vases and bowls, and, in a large cage, canaries uttered their piercing songs.

“I like your room, dear Mother, and wish you would send for me a little oftener.  All your writing—­now couldn’t I do some of it for you?”