“Well, my dear, what do you think of it?” he asked of the young girl. He used the Italian tongue, and used it with perfect ease; but this would not have convinced you he was Italian.
The child turned her head earnestly to one side and the other. “It’s very pretty, papa. Did you make it yourself?”
“Certainly I made it. Don’t you think I’m clever?”
“Yes, papa, very clever; I also have learned to make pictures.” And she turned round and showed a small, fair face painted with a fixed and intensely sweet smile.
“You should have brought me a specimen of your powers.”
“I’ve brought a great many; they’re in my trunk.”
“She draws very—very carefully,” the elder of the nuns remarked, speaking in French.
“I’m glad to hear it. Is it you who have instructed her?”
“Happily no,” said the good sister, blushing a little. “Ce n’est pas ma partie. I teach nothing; I leave that to those who are wiser. We’ve an excellent drawing-master, Mr.—Mr.—what is his name?” she asked of her companion.
Her companion looked about at the carpet. “It’s a German name,” she said in Italian, as if it needed to be translated.
“Yes,” the other went on, “he’s a German, and we’ve had him many years.”
The young girl, who was not heeding the conversation, had wandered away to the open door of the large room and stood looking into the garden. “And you, my sister, are French,” said the gentleman.
“Yes, sir,” the visitor gently replied. “I speak to the pupils in my own tongue. I know no other. But we have sisters of other countries—English, German, Irish. They all speak their proper language.”
The gentleman gave a smile. “Has my daughter been under the care of one of the Irish ladies?” And then, as he saw that his visitors suspected a joke, though failing to understand it, “You’re very complete,” he instantly added.
“Oh, yes, we’re complete. We’ve everything, and everything’s of the best.”
“We have gymnastics,” the Italian sister ventured to remark. “But not dangerous.”
“I hope not. Is that your branch?” A question which provoked much candid hilarity on the part of the two ladies; on the subsidence of which their entertainer, glancing at his daughter, remarked that she had grown.
“Yes, but I think she has finished. She’ll remain—not big,” said the French sister.
“I’m not sorry. I prefer women like books—very good and not too long. But I know,” the gentleman said, “no particular reason why my child should be short.”
The nun gave a temperate shrug, as if to intimate that such things might be beyond our knowledge. “She’s in very good health; that’s the best thing.”
“Yes, she looks sound.” And the young girl’s father watched her a moment. “What do you see in the garden?” he asked in French.
“I see many flowers,” she replied in a sweet, small voice and with an accent as good as his own.
“Yes, but not many good ones. However, such as they are, go out and gather some for ces dames.”
The child turned to him with her smile heightened by pleasure. “May I, truly?”
“Ah, when I tell you,” said her father.
The girl glanced at the elder of the nuns. “May I, truly, ma mère?”
“Obey monsieur your father, my child,” said the sister, blushing again.
The child, satisfied with this authorisation, descended from the threshold and was presently lost to sight. “You don’t spoil them,” said her father gaily.
“For everything they must ask leave. That’s our system. Leave is freely granted, but they must ask it.”
“Oh, I don’t quarrel with your system; I’ve no doubt it’s excellent. I sent you my daughter to see what you’d make of her. I had faith.”
“One must have faith,” the sister blandly rejoined, gazing through her spectacles.
“Well, has my faith been rewarded? What have you made of her?”
The sister dropped her eyes a moment. “A good Christian, monsieur.”
Her host dropped his eyes as well; but it was probable that the movement had in each case a different spring. “Yes, and what else?”
He watched the lady from the convent, probably thinking she would say that a good Christian was everything; but for all her simplicity she was not so crude as that. “A charming young lady—a real little woman—a daughter in whom you will have nothing but contentment.”
“She seems to me very gentille,” said the father. “She’s really pretty.”
“She’s perfect. She has no faults.”
“She never had any as a child, and I’m glad you have given her none.”
“We love her too much,” said the spectacled sister with dignity. “And as for faults, how can we give what we have not? Le couvent n’est pas comme le monde, monsieur. She’s our daughter, as you may say. We’ve had her since she was so small.”
“Of all those we shall lose this year she’s the one we shall miss most,” the younger woman murmured deferentially.
“Ah, yes, we shall talk long of her,” said the other. “We shall hold her up to the new ones.” And at this the good sister appeared to find her spectacles dim; while her companion, after fumbling a moment, presently drew forth a pocket-handkerchief of durable texture.
“It’s not certain you’ll lose her; nothing’s settled yet,” their host rejoined quickly; not as if to anticipate their tears, but in the tone of a man saying what was most agreeable to himself.
“We should be very happy to believe that. Fifteen is very young to leave us.”
“Oh,” exclaimed the gentleman with more vivacity than he had yet
