Chapter XVI THE DISCOMFITURE OF SIR JOHN Sir John looked from one to the other of the two sisters. Gregory B. “Where were you?” He inquired, rubbing her shoulders. She remained stonily in the middle of the hallway until the spinsters' door shut them from view … for ever. He had saluted her with elaborate civility, his eyes distended with indecipherable meanings. Why? While the front of his mind was busy warning her not to fall into the hopeless miseries of underpaid teaching, and explaining his idea that for women of initiative, quite as much as for men, the world of business had by far the best chances, the back chambers of his brain were busy with the problem of that “Why?” His first idea as a man of the world was to explain her unrest by a lover, some secret or forbidden or impossible lover. Nothing else weighs against it. If I can’t talk anywhere else—I DO want an understanding. A deep dread calm, like that which precedes a thunderstorm, now prevailed amongst the assemblage. He lost control of the machine. She drew a breath, and sighed it out. The boy would never know just how lucky he was. There ends my duty. Vitally, she had the letter that proved her identity as a Charvill: the one her father had written to the Abbess when he sent her to the convent. You have spoken her name, I think, Marthe.
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