Her frank blue eyes raised themselves to his. He was instantly conscious of something cool and critical in her attitude towards him. Very possibly he had been conscious of it for some time, which accounted for his instinctive avoidance of her. In the crisis of thought and production through which he was passing he shrank from any touch of opposition or distrust. He distrusted himself enough. It was as though he carried about with him wounds that only Eleanor's soft touch could be allowed to approach. And from the first evening he had very naturally divined in this Yankee girl, with her mingled reserve and transparency, her sturdy Protestantisms of all sorts, elements antagonistic to himself.
She answered his question, however, by another—still referring to the seminarists.
'Isn't that the reason why they take and train them so young—that they may have no will left?'
'Well, is that the worst condition in the world—to give up your own will to an idea—a cause?'
She laughed shyly—a low musical sound that suddenly gave him, as it seemed, a new impression of her.
'You call the old priest an "idea"?'
Both had the same vision of the most portly and substantial of figures.
Manisty smiled unwillingly.
'The old priest is merely the symbol.'
She shook her head obstinately.
'He is all they know anything about. He gives orders, and they obey. Soon it will be some one else's turn to give them the orders—'