"No," I returned; "you are right."
"It is a part of the whole," continued he. "I have been in a kind of dream for a month. I dread the awakening, though everything reminds me of it now. It has been a new experience to me, this boarding with other people and seeing them so familiarly. There is no way of getting into easy and friendly relations with others in a very short space of time so effective as this; and, as the household has happened to be a very pleasant one, I have enjoyed the experiment greatly; though it is strange to think that I may never see any of our number again."
"You are really very flattering, Mr. Grey," I said, a little hurt. "Then I am never to see you again! I am glad you have given me warning, or I might have invited you to visit us in Boston, next winter."
"You are kind, very kind," he answered hastily; "nothing would give me greater pleasure than to meet you, but I shall not be in America next winter. I hope to be in Rome."
"Really!" I exclaimed. "Why are you going to Rome? To be a priest?"
"No, I am not so fortunate as to have that vocation. I am going abroad to try to find a wife, singular as it may appear."
"It does seem strange that a man with such strong American feelings as you should wish to have a foreign wife."
"I want to marry a Catholic," he said, switching off the tops of the golden-rod with the whip.
"And are there no Catholic wives to be obtained here?" I asked, smiling.
"No doubt; though I have not yet found the one I am looking for. Among converts there are girls who suffer for their faith, who are called upon to make sacrifices, to lose position, and the approbation, even the affection, of their friends. 'It is so odd!' they say, 'so unnecessary, to break away from early associations, and from forms of worship which have been sufficient for all their friends—and very good people too—and embrace a foreign religion.' Haven't you heard such remarks?"