Lewis was excited. “You know Hermes has made the most dreadfully big decision? He’s going to Rome!” Trumpets did not blow at that moment in the band; they should have, though.
Carla was puzzled. “You mean he’s going to Italy?”
“No, darling, he’s becoming a Roman Catholic. Isn’t it the most thrilling thing!”
“I suppose so,” she said. “I used to be a Catholic myself.”
“What happened?” asked Hermes in a lisping little girl’s voice.
“I seemed to’ve gotten out of the idea. I married a Protestant, of course.”
“What a pity,” murmured Hermes, looking at Holton admiringly; “I think it’s the only answer, really the only answer. Almost everyone I know is going over to Rome so there must be something in it.”
“Perhaps there is,” said Carla. “I think in Italy we take the Church too much for granted.”
“I do wish,” said Lewis, “that I could get interested in it. There seems to be such a rush for rosaries today. But I’m dreadfully afraid I’m just a hedonistic pagan.” He put his hand on Hermes’ plump little hand. “I’ve always felt that somewhere there is a faith that I could grasp onto.” With his other hand he took a drink out of his recently filled glass. “Sometimes one feels so lost, so homeless. I think there must always be a womb-longing in each of us, a desire to go back where we came from. I used to think that art was enough but I suppose I was wrong because I never had much real satisfaction from it. Carla here will say it is love that gives us a reason, but I don’t think so. I’ve always been in love. Occasionally with my own image, I must admit, but there have been others. No, I never got much out of love. Hermes here has his dancing, but I don’t think that was enough for him either....”
“Perhaps you’ve never given enough of yourself to another person,” said Carla.