"Even if it were otherwise possible (which it is not), the difference in religion ought to prevent it. How could so good a Catholic as you distress your family by marrying a heretic?"
"Perhaps she would be a Catholic." (I noticed that he did not say, "Perhaps I shall become a Protestant.") "Don't you think her father would let her marry a Catholic?"
"No," I replied stoically.
He was silent and dejected.
"You must forget her," said I kindly. "It is only a little while since you first saw her."
"A little while! It is my whole life!" "Only a few weeks," I continued. "We shall soon be across the ocean, and you will see other ladies."
"There is only one Miss St. Clair."
"I beg your pardon—there are three of them." But the boy was too miserable to notice this poor little sally.
We were approaching the hotel. "I shall not see you again at present," said he. "Monsignore will arrive this evening, and I must be at home to receive him. But I shall be in Paris by the middle of May, and I shall see you there: farewell till then."
The next morning Miss St. Clair and I were on our way to Florence. A week later, on our return from the convent of San Marco, where we had seen the cell of Savonarola and many lovely but faded frescoes of Fra Angelico and Fra Bartolommeo, whom should we find waiting for us in our temporary home on the Via Pandolfini but Count Alvala? I felt annoyed, and my face must have revealed it, for he said deprecatingly, "You ought to be glad to see your boy, Madame Fleming, for I have come this long journey only for a day, expressly to see you."