Sybil went with me to the railway station to see the Grays off. She was sorry to lose Millicent, but I could see at the same time that she was glad to have her out of the way.
“I never expected to see Milly come so safely out of it!” she exclaimed as we turned away, after watching the train puff out of the station. “I could have staked my head on it that you would have made a Romanist of her by this.”
“You would have lost your head, then, and, such as it is, you would be worse off without it,” I answered crossly. “One really would imagine, to hear you talk, Sybil, that the faith was a disease that people caught like measles or the small-pox.”
“And so it is—that is—I don’t mean exactly that—but it certainly is contagious; everybody says it is, and that there is nothing so dangerous as living amongst good Catholics. I was terrified out of my life for Milly; I told her so over and over again, and did my very best to protect her. But I must say you have behaved very honorably, Lilly; I suppose there is hardly a Roman Catholic you know who would have behaved as well.”
“You mean to be complimentary, so I suppose I ought to say 'thank you,’” I replied, while I could not but laugh at her impertinence. “Just tell me one thing, Sybil,” I said: “You admit the right of private judgment, don’t you?”
“Do I? Why, I admit nothing else!” screamed Sybil.
“Then if Protestants, in right of their private judgment, choose to believe in the Catholic Church, what have you to say against it?”
“Only this: that in becoming Catholics they don’t exercise their private judgment, they renounce it,” said Sybil.
“After they become Catholics; but in the first instance? The act of renunciation involves an exercise of the judgment, does it not?”
“Oh! if you are going to be metaphysical, I give in,” said Sybil; “I hate and detest metaphysics!”