Alone once more in the sordid parlor of the dead missionary, lying on the long chair that faced the window, her abstracted eyes on the temple across the river (now again at the approach of evening aerial and lovely), Kitty tried to set in order the feelings in her heart. She would never have believed that this visit to the convent could so have moved her. She had gone from curiosity. She had nothing else to do and after looking for so many days at the walled city across the water she was not unwilling to have at least a glimpse of its mysterious streets.

But once within the convent it had seemed to her that she was transported into another world situated strangely neither in space nor time. Those bare rooms and the white corridors, austere and simple, seemed to possess the spirit of something remote and mystical. The little chapel, so ugly and vulgar, in its very crudeness was pathetic; it had something which was wanting in the greatness of a cathedral, with its stained glass and its pictures: it was very humble; and the faith which had adorned it, the affection which cherished it, had endured it with a delicate beauty of the soul. The methodical way in which the convent's work was carried on in the midst of the pestilence showed a coolness in the face of danger and a practical sense, almost ironical it was so matter of fact, which were deeply impressive. In Kitty's ears rang still the ghastly sounds she heard when for a moment Sister St. Joseph opened the infirmary door.

It was unexpected the way they had spoken of Walter. First the Sister and then the Mother Superior herself, and the tone of her voice had been very gentle when she praised him. Oddly enough it gave her a little thrill of pride to know that they thought so well of him. Waddington also had told something of what Walter was doing; but it was not only his competence that the nuns praised (in Hong Kong she had known that he was thought clever), they spoke of his thoughtfulness and his tenderness. Of course he could be very tender. He was at his best when you were ill; he was too intelligent to exasperate, and his touch was pleasant, cool and soothing. By some magic he seemed able by his mere presence to relieve your suffering. She knew that she would never see again in his eyes the look of affection which she had once been so used to that she found it merely exasperating. She knew now how immense was his capacity for loving; in some odd way he was pouring it out on these wretched sick who had only him to look to. She did not feel jealousy, but a sense of emptiness; it was as though a support that she had grown so accustomed to as not to realise its presence were suddenly withdrawn from her so that she swayed this way and that like a thing that was top-heavy.

She had only contempt for herself because once she had felt contempt for Walter. He must have known how she regarded him and he had accepted her estimate without bitterness. She was a fool and he knew it and because he loved her it had made no difference to him. She did not hate him now, nor feel resentment of him, but fear rather and perplexity. She could not admit but that he had remarkable qualities, sometimes she thought that there was even in him a strange and unattractive greatness; it was curious then that she could not love him, but loved still a man whose worthlessness was now so clear to her. After thinking, thinking, all through those long days she rated accurately Charles Townsend's value; he was a common fellow and his qualities were second-rate. If she could only tear from her heart the love that still lingered there! She tried not to think of him.

Waddington too thought highly of Walter. She alone had been blind to his merit. Why? Because he loved her and she did not love him. What was it in the human heart that made you despise a man because he loved you? But Waddington had confessed that he did not like Walter. Men didn't. It was easy to see that those two nuns had for him a feeling which was very like affection. He was different with women; notwithstanding his shyness you felt in him an exquisite kindliness.

凯蒂再一次一个人在客厅里坐着，这个肮脏的客厅原来是属于死去的传教士的。她躺在长椅上，面对着窗户，远眺河对面的庙宇（现在又接近傍晚，在天空的映衬下庙宇很可爱）。凯蒂在设法梳理清楚心中的感情，她没有想到这次对修道院的造访让她如此感动，她本来是出于好奇才去的，因为闲着没事。原先她想探究河对岸那座用石墙围起来的城镇，一直琢磨了好些天，可真的到过那儿之后，她一眼也不想再看到那些神秘的街道了。

但是，一旦进入了修道院，对她来说似乎到了另外一个超越时空的世界，那些没有什么家具的房间，冷峻简朴的白色走廊，好像拥有某种遥远和神奇的精神。那个小教堂，看上去是那么丑陋和粗俗，但在它粗陋的外表之下是悲天悯人之心，具有某种大教堂的富丽堂皇所不具备的东西。小教堂的花窗玻璃和图画都很寒酸，但其所传达的信仰使其变得肃穆庄严，传达出的博爱使其变得弥足珍贵，这些赋予了它内在的淡雅之美。在瘟疫流行的中心地带，修道院的工作在有条不紊地进行着，显示出面对危险的冷静和讲求实际的作风，几乎与严峻的现实形成了具有讽刺意味的对比，给凯蒂留下了深刻的印象。同时，凯蒂的耳中至今还回荡着圣约瑟夫修女打开医院大门的那一刻所传出来的鬼哭狼嚎般的声音。

更出人意料的是他们对沃尔特的评价，首先是圣约瑟夫修女，然后是院长嬷嬷，当她对他大加赞扬时，语气变得格外温柔。很奇怪，当凯蒂想到这儿时，竟让她觉得有些骄傲和激动——她们对沃尔特的评价如此之高。威廷顿也说了一些沃尔特正在做的事情，但那不仅仅是修女们所赞扬的能力（在香港时，她就已经知道大家都说他聪明），而且还有他的深思熟虑和温柔体贴。当然，他可以是非常温柔的，尤其是在你生病的时候，这种温柔能够达到极致。他非常聪明，不会动不动就生气，他的抚摸也能使人身心愉快，解愁忘忧，好像有某种神奇的魔力，似乎只要他站在你面前，就能缓解你的痛苦。她知道自己再也不能在他的目光中找到深情款款的爱意了，这曾经是她一度习以为常的神情，现在看到的只是恼怒。现在她知道了他巨大的爱的能力，用某种奇怪的方式，他现在把这种爱都倾注在了他所照顾的可怜的病人身上了，她并不感到妒忌，只有一种深深的失落感。就好像一种她虽然没有意识到，但早已习惯的支柱，被突然从她的身上抽走，使她变得头重脚轻，走路摇摇晃晃起来。

她曾经一度瞧不起沃尔特，现在她只感到自己瞧不起自己了。他一定知道她是怎样看待他的，而且接受了她对他的看法，没有感到丝毫的苦涩。她是个傻女人，他也知道这一点，但因为他爱她，所以对他来说没有任何影响。她现在不再恨他了，也不再有怨气了，有的只是害怕和困惑。她虽然不愿，但也不得不承认他有很多了不起的品质。有时，她认为在他身上甚至有种奇怪的和让人难以接近的伟大。匪夷所思的是过去她并不爱他，反而爱上了——现在仍然在爱着——一个毫无价值的男人，她此时越来越看清了这一点。经过了一遍又一遍的思索，在这段漫长的日子里，她准确地衡量了查理的价值，他是个再普通不过的男人，他身上的品质都是二流的，要是她能把对他的爱连根拔除就好了，这种爱仍然在她心中挥之不去！她努力让自己不去想他。

连威廷顿对沃尔特的评价都非常高，只有她自己对沃尔特的好视而不见，为什么会这样？因为他爱她，而她并不爱他。究竟是什么东西在人们的心中作怪，使你轻视一个爱你的人呢？但是，威廷顿坦承他并不喜欢沃尔特，男人们都不会喜欢。可很容易看出，那两个修女对沃尔特是由衷的欣赏和喜爱，在女人眼中他就不一样了，尽管你能感觉到他的羞涩，但同时你也能感受到他身上散发出的优雅成熟的气质。