“I hate these simple tastes,” growled out the padre; “they bespeak that obstinacy which people call a 'calm temperament.' Her own dress, too, has no indication of her rank, Nina.”
“That shall be cared for, padre.”
“Why shouldn't that young soldier come along with her? Tell him that our choir is magnificent; whisper him that the beautiful Marchesa di Guardoni sits on the very bench beside Miss Dalton.”
Nina nodded an assent.
“The young girl herself is lax enough about her duties, Nina; she has not been even once to confession.”
“That comes of these English!” cried Nina; “they make our service a constant jest. There is always some vulgar quizzing about saint-worship, or relic reverence, or the secrets of the confessional, going on amongst them.”
“Does she permit this?” asked the priest, eagerly.
“She blushes sometimes, occasionally she smiles with a good-humor meant to deprecate these attacks, and now and then, when the sallies have been pushed too far, I have seen her in tears some hours after.”
“Oh, if these heretics would but abstain from ridicule!” cried the canon. “The least lettered amongst them can scoff and gibe and rail. They have their stock subjects of sarcasm, too, handed down from father to son, poor, witless little blasphemies, thefts from Voltaire, who laughed at themselves, and much mischief do they work! Let them begin to read, however, let them commence to 'inquire,' as the phrase has it, and the game is our own.”
“I think, padre,” said Jekyl, “that more of your English converts are made upon principles of pure economy. Popery, like truffles, is so cheap abroad!”