“Yes, but a priest should be a man, and so much more; a priest”—
Don Ippolito shrugged his shoulders.
“No, no!” cried the girl. “Your own schemes have all failed, you say; then why do you not think of becoming a priest in reality, and getting the good there must be in such a calling? It is singular that I should venture to say such a thing to you, and it must seem presumptuous and ridiculous for me, a Protestant—but our ways are so different.”... She paused, coloring deeply, then controlled herself, and added with grave composure, “If you were to pray”—
“To what, madamigella?” asked the priest, sadly.
“To what!” she echoed, opening her eyes full upon him. “To God!”
Don Ippolito made no answer. He let his head fall so low upon his breast that she could see the sacerdotal tonsure.
“You must excuse me,” she said, blushing again. “I did not mean to wound your feelings as a Catholic. I have been very bold and intrusive. I ought to have remembered that people of your church have different ideas—that the saints”—
Don Ippolito looked up with pensive irony.
“Oh, the poor saints!”
“I don’t understand you,” said Florida, very gravely.