The pastor answered with just a touch of good-natured satire.
“If there are no secrets, how is it that the Church has prospered there?”
The priest smiled enigmatically.
“The Church adapts itself....
“I am going back to Rome, with a mind at rest. We have held together the thread of two lives which threatened to snap, nay, three lives: there is a boy whose career must be watched closely. Other forces are at work—race impulses; they must be eradicated.”
“Is that possible?”
“Yes, but difficult. I shall bring the boy to Rome; there, all other influences will be neutralized.”
The pastor offered his hospitality for the night, which was gratefully accepted. It had been a turbulent time ending happily. The priest was in a frame of mind harmonizing with the beauty of approaching twilight. They sat outside the châlet. The pastor filled long glasses with the wine of the Canton, which expands the Soul. They sat there, looking into the Val Sinestra, until the sun scattered rubies and the moon threw down a silver veil.
They talked of the future of religion and the wave of unbelief sweeping over the world.
“When I meet a man like you,” said the priest, “I regret the loss to the Church. Protestantism was at best a frail child; it cannot survive without support. Why should it not come back? We would kill the fatted calf to celebrate the return of our Prodigal Son.”