It was a still, warm evening, and the stars were beginning to show themselves in the dark blue sky when Irene left the church. There was peace in her soul as she breathed in the balmy Southern air. “Thank God!” she said to herself. “At last I have found my vocation. What matter if I do not sufficiently believe? The principal thing is to sing, to read prayers, and to touch the hearts of all those unhappy, suffering people, who come to pray with the nuns, believing in their purity and saintliness.” Almost all unmarried women of a certain age suffer secret torments from the fact that they have actually no place in society. Irene was no exception to this rule, and she was happy at the thought that now, at last, she might be of some use in the service of humanity. To have a special uniform—an idea always dear to the Russian heart—was also a great attraction. In imagination she tried on the picturesque dress of those modern vestal virgins, making up her mind to be graceful, to float about like a white spirit, to sing, and to read prayers melodiously. From that day, Irene never missed a single evening service in the Via Gallia. The nuns were inaccessible to outsiders, and no stranger was ever admitted to the convent—an additional fact to play upon Irene’s fancy. The convent stood on a hill. Luxurious palms and fragrant Roman pines leaned over its high garden walls, and Irene saw, in imagination, the small, interior courtyard, with its covered verandah, its slim, carved columns, its murmuring fountain, its Southern foliage and flowers. She pictured to herself the early morning; she heard the measured tones of the melodious convent bells calling the sisters to prayer; then she thought of the evening, of a golden Roman sunset, a purple sky, faint, glistening stars, and the _Ave Maria_.… How beautiful, how poetical, seemed her future life, with its prayers, its meditations, its rapturous exaltation, its Gospel-readings, its soft singing, its incense! An enchanted existence in a Southern clime, a sweet, mystical dream, and then—death, followed by a probable awakening to some new and glorious life! The news of Irene’s decision created a great sensation in her _pension_. Although nothing was definitely settled between herself and Père Etienne, everyone else knew which order she had chosen, and on which day she was to be received. Some even went so far as to name the dressmaker who was making her convent robes. They all constantly stared at Irene, and pointed her out to their visitors.