One of O'Day's low, murmuring laughs, that always sounded as if he had grown unaccustomed to letting the whole of it pass his lips, filtered through the room.
“You see what a heathen I am, Father,” he exclaimed. “But I am going to turn over a new leaf. I shall honor myself by visiting St. Barnabas's some day very soon, and shall sit in the front pew—or, perhaps, in yours, Mrs. Cleary, if you will let me—now that I know who officiates,” and he inclined his head graciously toward the priest. “I hope the service is not always in the morning!”
“Oh, no, we have a service very often at night, sometimes at eight o'clock.”
“And how long does that last?”
“Perhaps an hour.”
“And so if I should come at eight and wait until you are free, you could give me, perhaps, another hour of yourself?”
“Yes, and with the greatest pleasure. But why at those hours?” asked the priest with some curiosity.
“Because I am very busy at other times. But I want to be quite frank. If I come, it will not be because I need your service, but because I shall want to see YOU. Your church is not my church, and never has been, but your people—especially your priests—have always had my admiration and respect. I have known many of your brethren in my time. One in particular, who is now very old—a dear abbe, living in Paris. Heaven is made up of just such saints.”
The priest clasped his hands together. “We have many such, sir,” he replied solemnly. The acknowledgment came reverently, with a gleam that shone from under the heavy brows.
Felix caught its brilliance, and the sense of a certain bigness in the man passed through him. He had been prepared for his quiet, well-bred dignity. All the priests he had known were thoroughbreds in their manner and bearing; their self-imposed restraint, self-effacement, absence of all unnecessary gesture, and modulated voices had made them so; but the warmth of this one's underlying nature was as unexpected as it was pleasurable.