As she closed the door behind her she began to whistle—which even to the most kindly and broad-minded eye would have seemed still odder. And as she went into the sitting room she caught her toe in a rug, stumbled, and said “God damn!” in a distinctly masculine baritone, and laughed cheerfully an instant afterwards—which would doubtless have moved even the most kindly and broad-minded eye to blink rapidly and open itself wide. But there was no such inquiring and impressionable eye to perform these acrobatics. There was only a square-chinned white-haired man in rimless spectacles, sitting in an easy chair with a book on his lap, who looked up with a nod and a quiet smile as the nun came in. He closed his book, marking the place methodically, and stood up—a spare, vigorous figure in grey homespun, “All right?” he queried. “Fine,” said the nun. She pushed her veil back from a sleek black head, unbuttoned things and unhitched things, and threw off the long, stuffy draperies with a sigh of relief.
