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'You wouldn't now,' Father Consett began, and almost coaxingly, 'think of going into retreat for a month or two.' 'I wouldn't,' Sylvia said. 'How could I?'

'There's a convent of female Premonstratensians near Birkenhead, many ladies go there,' the Father went on. 'They cook very well, and you can have your own furniture and your own maid if ye don't like nuns to wait on you.'

'It can't be done,' Sylvia said, 'you can see for yourself. It would make people smell a rat at once. Christopher wouldn't hear of it...'

'No, I'm afraid it can't be done, Father,' Mrs Satterthwaite interrupted finally. 'I've hidden here for four months to cover Sylvia's tracks. I've got Wateman's to look after. My new land steward's coming in next week.'

'Still,' the Father urged, with a sort of tremulous eagerness, 'if only for a month...If only for a fortnight...So many Catholic ladies do it...Ye might think of it.'

'I see what you're aiming at,' Sylvia said with sudden anger; 'you're revolted at the idea of my going straight from one man's arms to another.'