“I—I like him very much, I think—at least—no, I am not quite sure that I do. But it is difficult to say, after seeing a person once.”
Montanelli sat beating his hand gently on the arm of his chair; a habit with him when anxious or perplexed.
“About this journey to Rome,” he began again; “if you think there is any—well—if you wish it, Arthur, I will write and say I cannot go.”
“Padre! But the Vatican———”
“The Vatican will find someone else. I can send apologies.”
“But why? I can't understand.”
Montanelli drew one hand across his forehead.
“I am anxious about you. Things keep coming into my head—and after all, there is no need for me to go———”
“But the bishopric——”
“Oh, Arthur! what shall it profit me if I gain a bishopric and lose——”