THE BRIDGE OF SAN LUIS REY
said a lay-sister at the door of the Abbess’s office.
“Well,” said the Abbess, laying down her pen, “who is she?”
“She has just come from Spain. I don’t know.”
“Oh, it is some money, Inez, some money for my house for the blind. Quick, bid her come in.”
The tall, rather langorous beauty entered the room. Doña Clara, who was generally so adequate, seemed constrained for once. “Are you busy, dear Mother, may I talk to you for a while?”
“I am quite free, my daughter. You will excuse an old woman’s memory; have I known you before?”
“My mother was the Marquesa de Montemayor. . . .” Doña Clara suspected that the Abbess had not admired her mother and would not let the older woman speak until she herself had made a long passionate defense of Doña María. The languor fell away in her self-reproach. At last the Abbess told her of Pepita and Esteban, and of Camila’s visit. “All, all of us have failed.
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