looked down.

"But the--the--"

He cleared his throat, turned, looked out across the white sand as if
he longed to travel away into it and be lost for ever, then went on,
speaking quickly:

"But the monk who has most to do with travellers is the monk who is
in charge of the _hotellerie_ of the monastery. He is the host to all
visitors, to those who come over for the day and have _dejeuner_, and
to any who remain for the night, or for a longer time. For when I was at
El-Largani it was permitted for people to stay in the _hotellerie_, on
payment of a small weekly sum, for as long as they pleased. The monk of
the _hotellerie_ is perpetually brought into contact with the outside
world. He talks with all sorts and conditions of men--women, of course,
are not admitted. The other monks, many of them, probably envy him. I
never did. I had no wish to see strangers. When, by chance, I met them
in the yard, the outbuildings, or the grounds of the monastery, I seldom
even raised my eyes to look at them. They were not, would never be, in
my life. Why should I look at them? What were they to me? Years went
on--quickly they passed--not slowly. I did not feel their monotony. I
never shrank from anything in the life. My health was splendid. I never
knew what it was to be ill for a day. My muscles were hard as iron.
The pallet on which I lay in my cubicle, the heavy robe I wore day and
night, the scanty vegetables I ate, the bell that called me from my
sleep in the darkness to go to the chapel, the fastings, the watchings,
the perpetual sameness of all I saw, all I did, neither saddened nor
fatigued me. I never sighed for change. Can you believe that, Domini?
It is true. So long as Dom Andre Herceline lived and ruled my life I was
calm, happy, as few people in the world, or none, can ever be. But Dom
Andre died, and then--"

His face was contorted by a spasm.

"My mother was dead. My brother lived on in Tunis, and was successful in
business. He remained unmarried. So far as I was concerned, although the
monastery was but two hours' drive from the town, he might almost have
been dead too. I scarcely ever saw him, and then only by a special
permission from the Reverend Pere, and for a few moments. Once I visited
him at Tunis, when he was ill. When my mother died I seemed to sink down
a little deeper into the monastic life. That was all. It was as if I
drew my robe more closely round me and pulled my hood further forward
over my face.