“Listen. It’s perfectly clear to me, and you can understand if you will. I have almost made up my mind to become a Catholic—”
“You?” Ralston stared at her in surprise. “You—a Roman Catholic?”
“Yes—Holy Roman Catholic and Apostolic. Is that clear, Jack?”
“Perfectly. I’m sorry.”
“Now don’t be a Puritan, Jack—”
“I’m not a Puritan. I haven’t a drop of Puritan blood. You have, Katharine, for your grandmother was one of the real old sort. I’ve heard my father say so.”
“You’re just as much a Lauderdale as I am,” retorted Katharine. “And if Scotch Presbyterians are not Puritans, what is? But that isn’t what I mean. It’s the tendency to wish that people were nothing at all rather than Catholics.”
“It’s not that. I’m not so prejudiced. I was thinking of the row—that’s all. You don’t mean to keep that a secret, too? It wouldn’t be like you.”
“No, indeed,” answered Katharine, proudly.
“Well—you’ve not told me what the connection is between this and our marriage. You don’t suppose that it will really make any difference to me, do you? You can’t. And you’re quite mistaken about my Puritanism. I would much rather that my wife should be a Roman Catholic than nothing at all. I’m broad enough for that, anyhow. Of course it’s a serious matter, because people sometimes do that kind of thing and then find out that they have made a mistake—when it’s too late. And there’s something ridiculous and undignified about giving it up again when it’s once done. Religion seems to be a good deal like politics. You may change once—people won’t admire you—I mean people on your old side—but they will tolerate you. But if you change twice—”