“If only I could afford another!” she thought regretfully. So he made his dispositions and went off on some other fool’s errand. Then she was out of the door and running, fast. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You have papers of identity, for the Mother Abbess told me so. The fibre of his soul had to be tested, queerly, to make him worthy of you. “What a fool I am!” he muttered, standing up on the hearthrug, and leaning his elbows upon the broad mantelpiece. There’s that old gentleman at the end of the table—Bullding his name is.
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