once or twice as if searching for the correct translation of a
word--then handed them back to him in silence. She looked at him
again, frankly, with no attempt to disguise her scrutiny, and the
perplexity in her eyes grew greater. One small white hand slid to
the crucifix hanging on her breast, as if seeking aid from the
familiar symbol, and Craven saw that her fingers were trembling.
A faint flush rose in her face.

"_Monsieur_ is perhaps married, or--happily--he has a
mother?" she asked at last, and the flush deepened as she looked
up at the big man standing before her. She made a little gesture
of embarrassment but her eyes did not waver. They would not, he
thought with sudden intuition. For he realised that it was one of
his own order who confronted him. It was not what he had
anticipated. The Mother Superior's low voice continuing in gentle
explanation broke into his thoughts.

"_Monsieur_ will forgive that I catechise him thus but I had
expected one--much older." Her distress was obvious. And Craven
divined that as a prospective guardian he fell short of
expectation. And yet, his lack of years was apparently to her the
only drawback. His lack of years--Good God, and he felt so old!
His youth was a disadvantage that counted for nothing in the
present instance. If she could know the truth, if the anxious gaze
that was fixed so intently on him could look into his heart with
understanding, he knew that she would shrink from him as from a
vile contamination.

He conceived the horror dawning in her eyes, the loathing in her
attitude, and seemed to hear her passionate protest against his