A spasm of fear convulsed the priest. Joseph Abravanel had the prophetic clairvoyance of his race. No! No! The boy was a good, faithful child of the Church, a believer in the true Faith.
He glanced again at the chair opposite; again he met those eyes long extinct—spirit eyes.
The servant announced, “Joseph Abravanel Gonzola Garrison.”...
Joseph threw himself with a gush of irresistible love into the old man’s arms; then, remembering, he dropped on his knees and kissed the ring of His Eminence. The Cardinal raised him, looking long into that mobile face aglow with the joy of life.
“Sit down, Joseph, we have much to talk over. No! no! not there, here.”
He pointed to a chair close beside him; there were three now at the table—indomitable spirits; one, invisible.
The Cardinal felt his way, asked about the family; he had not heard from Julie for some time.
“Oh, Mother is a bad correspondent, but if I miss a mail she cables.” His laughter rang through the high-vaulted room. “Father wants me to go into the banking business; the Gonzolas think I have talent for it.”
He was peeling an apple, careful not to break the ring; the Cardinal noticed his long tapering fingers, his white hands.
“Well, what do you think about it?”