“Are you my little Pirouette?” The man jumped from his car and addressed the girl who sat on the low wall of the Abbey garden. “I shouldn’t think so,” she retorted. “I’ve never been called a pirouette. What makes you think I might be yours?” “I don’t think so, now.” He was looking at her carefully. “No, I’m sure you’re not. Where is she?” He had been told to look for a girl with a riot of yellow curls. This girl’s hair was so fair as to be almost white—lint-white; and it curled demurely and very neatly round her neck. She wore a smock of khaki-coloured linen, with breeches showing below, and a soft hat lay on her knee. “It sounds to me as if you want Mary Damayris,” she remarked. “I’m merely Benedicta.” “Benedicta is a good introduction to an Abbey! Weren’t strangers always welcomed with a blessing?”