"Are you comparing us?" she asked gayly. "Or are you trying to decide what I would have done in her case? I can tell you that." "What would you have done?" "Done? I would have run away from him and the convent both! Do you think I was made to be cooped up in a nunnery if I could escape?" "No," he answered with fervor, "you were certainly not made for that." "That is an unclerical answer from a monk." "I am not a monk." She put her head a little on one side with delicious coquetry. "Would it be rude to ask what you are, then?" He regarded her a moment, and then with explosive vehemence he broke out:-- "I am a deacon who has not taken the vows, and I am a man who loves you with his whole soul!" She paled, and then flushed to her temples. She cast her eyes down, and seemed to be struggling for self-control. He did not offer to touch her, although his throat contracted with the intensity of his effort to maintain his outward calm. Then she looked up with a smile light and cold. "We are not called upon to play Filippo and Lucretia in reversed parts," she said. "I am not trying to tempt you away from your calling. Wouldn't it be better to talk about the weather?" He was unable to answer her, but sat staring with hot eyes into her face, feeling its beauty like a pain. "It has been very cold for the season during the past week," she went on. "Miss Morison," he retorted hotly, "I had no right to say that, but you needn't insult me. It is cruel enough as it is." Her face softened a little, but she ignored his words. "Tell me," she remarked, as if more personal subjects had not come into the conversation, "what are the chances of the election? I hear so many things said that I have ceased to have any clear ideas on the subject at all." Maurice sat upright, throwing back his shoulders. This girl should not get the better of him. He lifted his head, his nostrils distending. "It is too soon to speak with certainty," he responded; "but it is in regard to that that I came--that I was sent to see you this afternoon. We are under vows of obedience at the Clergy House." He said this defiantly, fancying he saw in her face a smile at the idea of his servitude. "You will regard what I say as the words of a messenger." "All?" she interrupted. He flushed with confusion, but he was determined that he would not again lose control of himself. "All that I _shall_ say," he responded. "What I have said is to be forgotten." "By me or by you?" she asked, dimpling into a smile so provoking that he had to look away from her or he should have given in. "By you," was his reply; but he could not help adding under his breath: "If you wish to forget it." She laughed outright. "I will consider the matter. But this errand from the powers that be at the Clergy House; I am curious about that." "You will remember," he urged, his face falling, "that it is only a message for which I have no responsibility."