Charvill’s command of French was enough to tell him that, for its entire content was devoted to commending Nicholas Charvill’s fourteen year old daughter into the care of the Abbess. It would be too mortifying. She moved her elbow nearer to him and spoke in a still lower tone. And as he walked by her side they began a wrangle that was none the less pleasant to Ann Veronica because it served to banish a disagreeable preoccupation. “I wouldn’t have been without this trip for worlds. I was once a disciple of Saint Peter myself, and speak from experience. Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. She addressed Ann Veronica with an air of conveying great open secrets to her. “Yes,” she said, “that is what we ought to do. You’ll need that. Give me your hand.
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