“After all, Owen, are they any more babies than we are?  Our interests are just as unreal.”

“Your interest here is not as unreal; their hope is to build a wall of prayer between a sinful world and the wrath of God.  Such silliness passes out of perception.”

“Your perception?  We come into the world with different perceptions; but do not let us drift into argument, not this evening, Owen.”

“Quite so, let us not drift into argument....  I am sorry you charged me with being disappointed that you didn’t remain in the convent; you see I didn’t know of the wonderful work you were doing here.  Your kindness is more than a nun’s kindness.”  But he feared his casual words might provoke her, and hastened to ask her about Sister Winifred, at length persuading her into the admission that Sister Winifred used to whip the children.

“I’m sure she liked whipping them.  Women who shut themselves out from life develop cruelty.  I can quite understand how she would like to hear them cry.”

“Tell me more about the nuns.”

“No, Owen, I wouldn’t speak ill of the nuns.  Don’t press me to speak ill of them.  You don’t know, Owen, what might have become of me had it not been for the convent.  I don’t know what might have become of me.  I might have drifted away and nothing have ever been heard of me again.”  A dark look gathered in her face, “vanishing like the shadow of a black wing over a sunny surface,” Owen said to himself, “Now what has frightened her?  Not her love of me, for that love she always looked on as legitimate.”  He remembered how she used to cling to that view, while admitting it to be contrary to the teaching of the Church.  Did she still cling to this belief?  “Probably, for we do hot change our instinctive beliefs,” he said, and longed to question her; but not daring, and, thinking a lighter topic of conversation desirable, he told her he would like to teach Eliza how to make coffee.

“There is only one way of making coffee” he said, and he had learned the secret from a friend, who had always the best coffee.  He had known him as a bachelor, he had known him as a married man, and afterwards as a divorced man, but in these different circumstances the coffee remained the same.  So he said, “My good friend how is it that your cooks make equally good coffee?” And the friend answered that it was himself who had taught every cook how to make coffee; it was only a question of boiling water.  And, still talking of the making of coffee, they wandered into the garden and stood watching the little boys all arow, their heads tucked in for Eliza’s son to jump over them, and they were laughing, enjoying their play, inspired, no doubt, by the dusk and the mystery of yon great moon rising out of the end of the grey valley.

“I’m afraid Jack will hurt the others, or tire them; they really must go to bed.  You’ll excuse me, Owen, I shall be back with you in about half an hour?”