"My father!" she whispered. ‘And how is it that you have acquired this garb of a religieuse?’ he asked as she fitted the veil over her head. I'm safe enough if you hold your tongue. In a little while—to-morrow—all these tender, beautiful emotions will pass away, and I'll become what I was yesterday, a cynical, miserly old spinster. At any rate, it would be good to hear him saying the sort of things he did—perhaps now she would grasp them better—with this world-shaking secret brandishing itself about inside her head within a yard of him. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. Old Kesterton, choleric-looking individual nearly opposite, will curse the cooking till he’s black in the face, but he never misses a dinner. “Now, there, there.
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