F. Cathy appeared in her bathrobe. Besides, she had admitted her identity. Not that he deliberately courted danger; it was rather the searcher, seeking analysis, the why and wherefore of this or that invading emotion. ‘But how did she meet such a person in a convent?’ ‘He was wounded and came there for sanctuary,’ Gerald explained, adding almost through his teeth. Or was that perhaps because his business in Piccadilly the other day had gone awry? Perhaps Brewis Charvill had not welcomed him with open arms. Quite right. She fought him with tooth and nail. You can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me—of that sort—worth a rap. She flung herself back into the bare little room, cold, empty, comfortless. Miss Moffatt, the history and moral instruction mistress, was particularly explicit upon this score, and they all agreed in indicating contempt and pity for girls whose minds ran on such matters, and who betrayed it in their conversation or dress or bearing.
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