Supposing she saw the young man at dinner that night, emptying his bottle? She could not go to him, sit down and draw the sordid pictures she had seen so often. She did her best to do this. Now it is—’ ‘What are you doing still here, missie, that’s what I’d like to know?’ demanded the man Trodger, sticking to his guns. Gosse! Dieu du ciel, but how did he get into the convent? She had perforce to obey his command, for speech was impossible. Perhaps she had found this new thing in life, the thing wonderful. Now let us forget it.
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