My reception at West Kensington you know of. ‘Mademoiselle,’ he had greeted her, entering the little private parlour where, Martha being at prayer in their room, she sat alone, reading over and over the letter Mother Abbess had given her and revolving plans in her head. She had not made friends with any; so they still eyed her askance. “My dear man,” she exclaimed, “wasn’t that a foregone conclusion?” “You treat the matter lightly,” he continued. Then I assumed a rather portentous manner to prepare him. “I’m not coarse—no! But I’ve got no purity of mind—no real purity of mind. ‘No.
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