I know there’s a sort of right in your impatience at the slowness of Progress. She meant to leave anyway, or so she would tell herself later. It was convenient for Father Saint-Simon, who could enter this way and prepare in the little room before going up the narrow stair to the chapel above where the nuns waited. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. "You will make me the happiest of mankind," cried the woollen-draper, falling on his knees, and seizing her hand, which he devoured with kisses. ‘Never trust a gun in female hands,’ grumbled Hilary, dropping the nun’s habit and backing to join his friend.
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