“That’s my girl!” he said, very low.  He put his arm about her and she leaned her head on his shoulder, grateful to him that he said no more just now, and did not even claim the kiss of the accepted lover.  Together they stood looking down at the leafless avenue, for a long moment.

“Stephen!” called Ella’s voice at the door.  Susan’s heart lost a beat; gave a sick leap of fear; raced madly.

“Just a moment,” Bocqueraz said pleasantly.  He stepped noiselessly to the door of the porch, noiselessly opened it, and Susan slipped through.

“Don’t let me interrupt you, but is Susan here?” called Ella.

“Susan?  No,” Susan herself heard him say, before she went quietly about the corner of the house and, letting herself in at the side-door, lost the sound of their voices.

She had entered the rear hall, close to a coat-closet; and now, following a sudden impulse, she put on a rough little hat and the long cloak she often wore for tramps, ran down the drive, crossed behind the stables, and was out in the quiet highway, in the space of two or three minutes.

Quick-rising clouds were shutting out the sun; a thick fog was creeping up from the bay, the sunny bright morning was to be followed by a dark and gloomy afternoon.  Everything looked dark and gloomy already; gardens everywhere were bare; a chilly breeze shook the ivy leaves on the convent wall.  As Susan passed the big stone gateway, in its close-drawn network of bare vines, the Angelus rang suddenly from the tower;—­three strokes, a pause, three more, a final three,—­dying away in a silence as deep as that of a void.  Susan remembered another convent-bell, heard years ago, a delicious assurance of meal-time.  A sharp little hungry pang assailed her even now at the memory, and with the memory came just a fleeting glimpse of a little girl, eager, talkative, yellow of braids, leading the chattering rush of girls into the yard.

The girls were pouring out of the big convent-doors now, some of them noticed the passer-by, eyed her respectfully.  She knew that they thought of her as a “young lady.”  She longed for a wistful moment to be one of them, to be among them, to have no troubles but the possible “penance” after school, no concern but for the contents of her lunch-basket!

She presently came to the grave-yard gate, and went in, and sat down on a tilted little filigree iron bench, near one of the graves.  She could look down on the roofs of the village below, and the circle of hills beyond, and the marshes, cut by the silver ribbons of streams that went down to the fog-veiled bay.  Cocks crowed, far and near, and sometimes there came to her ears the shouts of invisible children, but she was shut out of the world by the soft curtain of the fog.

Not even now did her breath come evenly.  Susan began to think that her heart would never beat normally again.  She tried to collect her thoughts, tried to analyze her position, only to find herself studying, with amused attention, the interest of a brown bird in the tip of her shoe, or reflecting with distaste upon the fact that somehow she must go back to the house, and settle the matter of her attitude toward Kenneth, once and for all.