xion.

"Ah! it is a little soon to ask that!" she said. "Still I will go north
with you a fortnight hence--go to Ormiston. And by then, perhaps, you
may be forgiven. Open the casement, dearest, and let in the wind. The
air of this room is curiously dead. Give my love to Julius and Ludovic.
Tell them I will come into the Chapel-Room after dinner
to-night.--What--my child, are you so very glad?--Kiss me.--God keep
you.--Now I will rest."

CHAPTER VI

IN WHICH M. PAUL DESTOURNELLE HAS THE BAD TASTE TO THREATEN TO UPSET
THE APPLE-CART

Helen de Vallorbes rose from her knees and slipped out from under the
greasy and frayed half-curtain of the confessional box. The atmosphere
of that penitential spot had been such as to make her feel faint and
dizzy. She needed to recover herself. And so she stood, for a minute or
more, in the clear, cool brightness of the nave of the great basilica,
her highly-civilised figure covered by a chequer-work of morning
sunshine streaming down through the round-headed windows of the lofty
clere-storey. As the sense of physical discomfort left her she
instinctively arranged her veil, and adjusted her bracelets over the
wrists of her long gloves. Yet, notwithstanding this trivial and
mundane occupation, her countenance retained an expression of devout
circumspection, of the relief of one who has accomplished a serious and
somewhat distasteful duty. Her sensations were increasingly agreeable.
She had rid herself of an oppressive burden. She was at peace with
herself and with--almost--all man and womankind.

Yet, it must be admitted, the measure had been mainly precautionary.
Helen had gone to confession, on the present occasion, in much the same
spirit as an experienced traveler visits his dentist before starting on
a protracted journey. She regarded it as a disagreeable, but politic,
insurance against possible accident. Her distaste had been increased by
the fact that there really were some rather risky matters to be
confessed. She had even feared a course of penance might have been
enforced before the granting of absolution--this certainly would have
been the case had she been dealing with that firm disciplinarian and
very astute man of the world, the Jesuit father who acted as her
spiritual adviser in Paris. But here in Naples, happily, it was
different. The fat, sleepy, easy-going, old canon--whose person exuded
so strong an odour of snuff that, at the solemnest moment of the
_confi