‘Ah!’ said Father Concha, by no means abashed by the sentinel’s sword. ‘Ah, it is you, Manuel. Your wife tells me you have objections to the christening of that last boy of yours, number five, I think. Bring number five on Sunday, after vespers—eh? You understand—and a little something for the poor. It is pay day on Saturday. And no more nonsense about religion, Manuel, eh?’
He shook his lean finger in the official’s face and walked on unchallenged.
‘May I come in?’ he said, tapping at the door; and Julia’s voice bade him enter.
He closed the door behind him and laid aside his hat. Then he stood upright, and slowly rubbing his hands together looked at Julia with the humorous twinkle lurking in his eye and its companion dimple twitching in his lean cheek. Then he began to feel his pockets, passing his hands down his worn cassock.
‘Let me see, I had a love letter—was it from Don Carlos? At all events, I have lost it!’
He laughed, made a perfunctory sign of the cross and gave her his blessing. Then, his face having become suddenly grave as if by machinery at the sound of the solemn Latin benediction, he sat down.
Julia looked worn and eager. Her eyes seemed to search his face for news.
‘Yes, my dear child,’ he said. ‘Politics are all very well as a career. But without a distinct profit they are worth the attention of few men, and never worth the thought of a woman.’
He looked at her keenly, and she turned to the window, which was open to admit the breath of violets and other flowers of the spring. She shrugged her shoulders and gave a sharp sigh.
‘See here, my child,’ said Padre Concha abruptly. ‘For reasons which concern no one, I take a great interest in your happiness. You resemble some one whose welfare was once more important to me than my own. That was long ago, and I now consider myself first, as all wise men should. I am your friend, Julia, and much too old to be over-scrupulous. I peep and pry into my neighbours’ affairs, and I am uneasy about you, my child.’