“Well?” he asked her tersely. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him. We are both graduates of Yale. “It’s the spring,” he said. Why should you wish to forget it? Unless it is that you did not enjoy it. Whether it was the nun’s habit or the harlot’s clothing that distressed her more, he could not begin to guess. Of course she had taken the boy as her lover, acting as his muse. Certainly I would not murder monsieur le major, even that he has made a threat to beat me. There was only one prisoner in the ward. His lawful wife; but nothing more; beyond that she was only an idea, a trust.
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