'I hope not,' he said, with emphasis.—'Otherwise you would have missed the whole point.'
'Why?—Mayn't one feel it was pathetic, and touching—'
'No—not in the least!' he said, impatiently. 'What does the man himself matter, or his age?—That's all irrelevant,—foolish sentiment. What makes these ceremonies so tremendous is that there is no break between that man and Peter—or Linus, if you like—it comes to the same thing:—that the bones, if not of Peter, at any rate of men who might have known Peter, are there, mingled with the earth beneath his feet—that he stands there recognised by half the civilised world as Peter's successor—that five hundred, a thousand years hence, the vast probability is there will still be a Pope in St. Peter's to hand on the same traditions, and make the same claims.'
'But if you don't acknowledge the tradition or the claims!—why shouldn't you feel just the human interest?'
'Oh, of course, if you want to take the mere vulgar, parochial view—the halfpenny interviewer's view—why, you must take it!' he said, almost with violence, shrugging his shoulders.
Lucy's eyes sparkled. There was always something of the overgrown, provoking child in him, when he wanted to bear down an opinion or feeling that displeased him. She would have liked to go on walking and wrangling with him, for the great ceremony had excited her, and made it easier for her to talk. But at that moment Mrs. Burgoyne's voice was heard in front—'Joy! there is the carriage, and Reggie has picked up another.—Edward, take Aunt Pattie through—we'll look after ourselves.'
* * * * *
And soon the whole party were driving in two of the little Roman victorias through streets at the back of the Capitol, and round the base of the Palatine, to the Aventine, where it appeared they were to lunch at an open-air trattoria, recommended by Mr. Brooklyn.
Mrs. Burgoyne, Lucy and Mr. Vanbrugh Neal found themselves together. Mrs. Burgoyne and Mr. Neal talked of the function, and Lucy, after a few shy expressions of gratitude and pleasure, fell silent, and listened. But she noticed very soon that Mrs. Burgoyne was talking absently. Amid the black that fell about her slim tallness, she was more fragile, more pale than ever; and it seemed to Lucy that her eyes were dark with a fatigue that had not much to do with St. Peter's. Suddenly indeed, she bent forward and said in a lowered voice to Mr. Neal—
'You have read it?'