“And is my influence with Madam Beaubien, and hers with the members of fashionable society, sufficient to effect that?” he asked, an odd look coming into his eyes.
“She has but to say the word to J. Wilton Ames, and his wife will receive us both,” said the woman, carried away by her eagerness. “And that means strong Catholic influence in New York’s most aristocratic set!”
“Ah!”
“Monsignor,” continued the woman eagerly, “will your Church receive an altar from me in memory of my late husband?”
He reflected a moment. Then, slowly, and in a low, earnest tone, “It would receive such a gift from one of the faith. When may we expect you to become a communicant?”
The woman paled, and her heart suddenly chilled. She had wondered how far she might go with this clever churchman, and now she knew that she had gone too far. But to retract––to have him relate this conversation and her retraction to the Beaubien––were fatal! She had set her trap––and walked into it. She groped blindly for an answer. Then, raising her eyes and meeting his searching glance, she murmured feebly, “Whenever you say, Monsignor.”
When the man had departed, which he did immediately, the plotting woman threw herself upon the davenport and wept with rage. “Belle,” she wailed, as her wondering sister entered the room, “I’m going to join the Catholic Church! But I’d go through Sheol to beat that Ames outfit!”