To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven. “Who are you?” She asked innocently. “Mike’s an idiot and we both know it, Lucy! I can’t stand him!” “Did you two have a fight? Are you breaking up?” Lucy said worriedly. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. It was a large room, about twenty feet long and fifteen broad, and had an arched stone roof. ‘Mademoiselle,’ he had greeted her, entering the little private parlour where, Martha being at prayer in their room, she sat alone, reading over and over the letter Mother Abbess had given her and revolving plans in her head.
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