“Admirable!” said the Archbishop. “Be seated.” With a gracious gesture of authority, he motioned J. to a chair, seated himself at the table, and bent over the plans.
Point by point, they went over the ground-plan, elevation, and all the rest of it. The Archbishop was delighted; every ingenious detail pleased him. His earnest, worn face relaxed; he really smiled, waxed enthusiastic. Nothing, he declared, could have been better devised. This was the attitude of the churchmen throughout. Whatever was done for them was well done. The plans for the church were much more elaborate than I had supposed from J.’s letters. Instead of a mere roofed-in shed, it was to be a very solidly built wooden church on concrete foundations; it was even to have a belfry.
“By grouping together the ordinary cottage windows, we have here a rose window!”
“What a good idea!”
“By a miracle, enough red glass has been found in Messina to make a red cross for the centre of the rose window—nothing is lacking, you see, not even a stained glass window.”
“Capital!”
“If we succeed in getting your church built for you, there are two requests we make in return.”
“Requests? Let us hear them.”
“First, that the church be called Santa Croce; this because, if built, it will be by a gift of the American Red Cross.”
“A good name,” the Archbishop nodded; “it shall certainly be called Santa Croce. The second request?”