“It gratifies me to hear you say that,” Armstrong answered, calmly. “I presume those early impressions of yours were formed at the library, when Miss Thayer and I came under your observation.”
“Yes,” replied the contessa, unruffled by the quiet sarcasm which she could but feel. “You see, I have lived here in Italy for several years and have become accustomed to the sight of saint worship; but it is a novel experience to see the saint come down off his pedestal and prove himself to have perfectly good warm blood coursing through his veins.”
“Don’t you find it a bit difficult to picture me with all my worldly attributes even as a temporary saint?”
“Not at all,” the contessa answered. “Most of the saints possessed worldly attributes before they attained the dignity of statues. But think of the confusion among their worshippers should they follow your example and again assume the flesh! I imagine their embarrassment would almost equal yours.”
Amélie spoke indifferently, but Armstrong felt the thrust. It was evident that she had no idea of dropping the subject, and Jack saw nothing else but to accept it as cheerfully as possible.
“Why not say ‘quite’?” he asked.
“Because the saints were wifeless. Perhaps that is what made it possible for them to be saints.”
Armstrong laughed in spite of himself. “If modern women were to be canonized, you undoubtedly think they should be selected from the married class?”
“Canonizing hardly covers it,” the contessa replied; “they belong among the martyrs.”
“But you have not told me why you now feel that your early impressions were in error,” Armstrong resumed, sensing danger along the path which they had almost taken, and really eager to learn how far his attitude had impressed others. The contessa regarded him critically.