And once more the Breton began his prayer to the crucified Christ.
“O Jesus quam profuso mi charitatis effectu complexus es qui non tantum manus et pedes, verum et opulentissimum pectus mihi operiri voluisti, ut inexhausto bonorum coelestium affluentia desiderium meum expleas——”
“And priest,” his Excellency’s wife again interrupted with the same meditative interest, “I would not say that it is annoying, either, to look at your face. Do you know,” she added naïvely, “that I was almost afraid to see you? I did not know what you would look like. My honourable husband has been telling me of the English, who have a wad of red hair on each cheek; isn’t that frightful?” And she laughed softly to herself, merrily as a child.
“You never even smile, do you?”
He made no answer.
“I do not think so; your face is too sad. And I suppose,” she sighed deprecatingly, “that it comes from all this dull praying.”
The Breton was looking sorrowfully across the room to the sunlit shells, opalescent in the latticed windows.
“Are you going to finish your prayer?” she asked with mock wonder.
He turned his head and looked steadily up to the crevices.
“You do not wish it,” he said sadly.