“If it were only a vanity,” Evelyn answered.  And her thoughts moved away from the Mother Mistress to herself, wondering how it was that this conventual life was so sympathetic to her, finding a reason in the fact that her idea had alienated her from the world; she had come here in quest of herself, and had found something, not exactly herself, perhaps, but at all events a refuge from one side of herself, and many other things—­a group of women who thought as she did.  But would the convent always be as necessary to her as it was to-day?  And what a grief it would be to the nuns when the term of her noviceship ended.  Would she find courage to tell them that she did not wish to take final vows?  But she must listen to Mother Hilda who was instructing her in the virtue of obedience.  After obedience came the rule of silence.

“But I don’t know how the work in the garden will be done if one isn’t allowed to speak.”

“The work in the garden must wait until your retreat is over.  Now go, my dear; I am waiting for Sisters Winifred and Veronica, who are coming to me for their Latin lesson.”

“May I go into the garden?”

It amused Evelyn to ask the question, so strange did it seem that she should ask, like a little child, permission to go into the garden; and as she went along the passages she began to fear that the old Evelyn was on her way back, the woman who had disappeared for so many months.  Be that as it may, she was not altogether Sister Teresa on the day of her clothing, though she tried to imitate the infantile glee of the novices, and of the nuns too; for they were nearly as childish as the novices.  In spite of herself she wearied of the babble and the laughter over orange-blossoms and wedding-cake, especially of Sister Jerome’s babble.  She was particularly noisy that afternoon; her unceasing humour had begun to jar, and Evelyn had begun to feel that she must get away from it all, and she asked leave to go into the garden.

Ah, the deep breath she drew!  How refreshing it was after the long time spent in church in the smell of burning wax and incense.  “The incense of the earth is sweeter,” she said; and the sound of the wind in the boughs reminded her of the voice of the priest intoning the “Veni Creator.”  “Nature is more musical,” and her eyes strayed over the great park to its rim miles away, indistinct, though the sky was white as white linen above it, only here and there a weaving of some faint cream tones amid clouds rising very slowly; a delicious warmth fell out of the noonday sky, enfolding the earth; and, discomforted by her habit—­a voluminous trailing habit with wide hanging sleeves—­ she stood on the edge of the terrace thinking that the stiff white head-dress made her feel more like a nun than her vows.