Florida waited a moment before she replied. Then she said coldly, “Don Ippolito is not going with us, mother.”
“Not going with us? Why”—
“He is not going to America. He will not leave Venice; he is to remain a priest,” said Florida, doggedly.
Mrs. Vervain sat down in the chair that stood beside the door. “Not going to America; not leave Venice; remain a priest? Florida, you astonish me! But I am not the least surprised, not the least in the world. I thought Don Ippolito would give out, all along. He is not what I should call fickle, exactly, but he is weak, or timid, rather. He is a good man, but he lacks courage, resolution. I always doubted if he would succeed in America; he is too much of a dreamer. But this, really, goes a little beyond anything. I never expected this. What did he say, Florida? How did he excuse himself?”
“I hardly know; very little. What was there to say?”
“To be sure, to be sure. Did you try to reason with him, Florida?”
“No,” answered the girl, drearily.
“I am glad of that. I think you had said quite enough already. You owed it to yourself not to do so, and he might have misinterpreted it. These foreigners are very different from Americans. No doubt we should have had a time of it, if he had gone with us. It must be for the best. I’m sure it was ordered so. But all that doesn’t relieve Don Ippolito from the charge of black ingratitude, and want of consideration for us. He’s quite made fools of us.”
“He was not to blame. It was a very great step for him. And if”....
“I know that. But he ought not to have talked of it. He ought to have known his own mind fully before speaking; that’s the only safe way. Well, then, there is nothing to prevent our going to-morrow.”