her
something of the ease and coolness of a married woman. This was natural
enough, considering that she was born of worldly people and had acquired
the manners of the world in her own home, in childhood.

"You are an Englishman, I presume, Signor Doctor?" she observed, in a
tone of interrogation.

"A Scotchman, Madam," answered Dalrymple, correcting her and drawing
himself up a little. "My name is Angus Dalrymple."

"It is the same--an Englishman or a Scotchman," said the nun.

"Pardon me, Madam, we consider that there is a great difference. The
Scotch are chiefly Celts. Englishmen are Anglo-Saxons."

"But you are all Protestants. It is therefore the same for us."

Dalrymple feared a discussion of the question of religion. He did not
answer the nun's last remark, but bowed politely. She, of course, could
not see the inclination he made.

"You say nothing," she said presently. "Are you a Protestant?"

"Yes, Madam."

"It is a pity!" said Maria Addolorata. "May God send you light."

"Thank you, Madam."

Maria Addolorata smiled under her veil at the polite simplicity of the
reply. She had met Englishmen in Rome.

"It is no longer customary to address us as 'Madam,'" she answered, a
moment later. "It is more usual to speak to us as 'Sister' or 'Reverend
Sister'--or 'Sister Maria.' I am Sister Maria Addolorata. But you know
it, for you sent your message to me."

"Doctor Taddei told me."

At this point the portress appeared in the distance, and Maria
Addolorata, hearing footsteps, turned her head from Dalrymple, raising
her veil a little, so that she could recognize the lay sister without
showing her face to the young man.

"Let us go," she said, dropping her veil again, and beginning to walk
on. "The sisters are warned."

Dalrymple followed her in silence and at a respectful distance,
congratulating himself upon his extraordinary good fortune in having got
so far on the first attempt, and inwardly praying that Sor Tommaso's
wounds might take a considerable time in healing. It had all come about
so naturally that he had lost the sensation of doing something
adventurous which had at first taken possession of him, and he now
regarded everything as possible, even to being invited to a friendly cup
of tea in Sister Maria Addolorata's sitting-room; for he imagined her as
having a sitting-room and as drinking tea there in a semi-luxurious
privacy. The idea would have amused an Italian of those days, when tea
wa