on her feet. The necessity
for immediate action at all costs restored the calm to her face and the
tactful skill to her actions. She reached the door first, and then, half
turning her head, stood aside, as though to give Beatrice precedence in
passing. Beatrice glanced at her face for the first time, and then by
a courteous movement of the head signified that Unorna should go out
first. Unorna appeared to hesitate, Beatrice to protest. Both women
smiled a little, and Unorna, with a gesture of submission, passed
through the doorway. She had managed it so well that it was almost
impossible to avoid speaking as they threaded the long corridors
together. Unorna allowed a moment to pass, as though to let her
companion understand the slight awkwardness of the situation, and then
addressed her in a tone of quiet and natural civility.

"We seem to be the only ladies in retreat," she said.

"Yes," Beatrice answered. Even in that one syllable something of the
quality of her thrilling voice vibrated for an instant. They walked a
few steps farther in silence.

"I am not exactly in retreat," she said presently, either because she
felt that it would be almost rude to say nothing, or because she wished
her position to be clearly understood. "I am waiting here for some one
who is to come for me."

"It is a very quiet place to rest in," said Unorna. "I am fond of it."

"You often come here, perhaps."

"Not now," answered Unorna. "But I was here for a long time when I was
very young."

By a common instinct, as they fell into conversation, they began to walk
more slowly, side by side.

"Indeed," said Beatrice, with a slight increase of interest. "Then you
were brought up here by the nuns?"

"Not exactly. It was a sort of refuge for me when I was almost a child.
I was left here alone, until I was thought old enough to take care of
myself."

There was a little bitterness in her tone, intentional, but masterly in
its truth to nature.

"Left by your parents?" Beatrice asked. The question seemed almost
inevitable.

"I had none. I never knew a father or a mother." Unorna's voice grew sad
with each syllable.

They had entered the great corridor in which their apartments were
situated, and were approaching Beatrice's door. They walked more and
more slowly, in silence during the last few moments, after Unorna had
spoken. Unorna sighed. The passing breath traveling on the air of the
lonely place seemed both to invite and to offer