“Quite possible,” returned Antony smiling.
The Duchessa shook her head.
“Oh, if you are in that mood, warnings are waste of breath,” she announced.
“Quite,” agreed Antony, still smiling.
He was radiantly, idiotically happy. The joy of the morning, the brilliance of the sunshine, and the fact that the Duchessa was walking by his side, had gone to his head like wine. If the expenditure of coppers could impart one tenth of his happiness to others, he would fling them broadcast, he would be a very spendthrift with his gladness.
At the church to the left of the square, the Duchessa paused.
“In here first,” she said. And Antony followed her up the steps.
They made their way through a swarm of grubby children, and entered the porch. It was cool and dark in the church in contrast to the heat and sunshine without. Here and there Antony descried a kneeling figure,—women with handkerchiefs on their heads, and a big basket beside them; an old man or two; a girl telling her beads before the Lady Altar; and a small dark-haired child, who gazed stolidly at the Duchessa. Votive candles burned before the various shrines. The ruby lamp made a spot of light in the shadows above the High Altar.
The Duchessa dropped on one knee, and then knelt for a few moments at one of the prie-dieux. Antony watched her. He was sensible that she was not a mere sight-seer. The church held an element of home for her. Two of the passengers—the young man and the cynical elderly gentleman, who had been in the boat with them—strolled in behind him. They gazed curiously about, remarking in loudish whispers on what they saw. Antony felt suddenly, and quite unreasonably, annoyed at their entry. Somehow they detracted from the harmony and peace of the building.
“I didn’t know you were a Catholic,” he said five minutes later, as he and the Duchessa emerged once more into the sunlight.