As soon as she was quite recovered my uncle left us to ascertain what had been done with Angelo.
"I feel quite frightened, Frank," said Daphne, trembling all over, "at what has just happened. Why did the priest refuse Angelo the Sacrament?"
"That is a mystery I too would like to solve."
"The priest must have had some reason for his action," she rejoined. "How awful Angelo looked when he jumped to his feet and glared round on the people! Promise me that you will not leave me alone with him," she said, laying her hand confidingly on my arm. "I feel afraid of him now; I did not think he could be so wild and passionate."
I gave her the required promise, knowing that the reason she exacted it was her dread lest the artist should use such opportunity for declaring his love to her.
She drew, perhaps unconsciously, nearer to me, and her arm within mine tightened its clasp. At the same time a rose she was wearing in her hat (a flower from the bouquet Angelo had given her the previous day) fell from its stalk. Daphne affected not to notice its fall, and it lay neglected, its petals scattered and withered as the hopes of the donor.
"Well, what have they done with Angelo?" said I to my uncle, as that worthy returned to us.
"His paroxysm of fury passed off after a few minutes, so they let him go."
"Do you think," I whispered, to my uncle as we journeyed homewards, "that Angelo's Madonna had anything to do with his expulsion from the Communion?"
"I am pretty sure that it had not," was the reply. "Angelo's was a much more grave offence."