Don Ippolito suffered this and more in meek silence. He waited his opportunity with unfailing politeness, and then with gentle punctilio took his leave.
“Well, come again as soon as your duties will let you, Don Ippolito,” cried Mrs. Vervain. “We shall miss you dreadfully, and I begrudge every one of your readings that Florida loses.”
The priest passed, with the sliding step which his impeding drapery imposed, down the garden walk, and was half-way to the gate, when Florida, who had stood watching him, said to her mother, “I must speak to him again,” and lightly descended the steps and swiftly glided in pursuit.
“Don Ippolito!” she called.
He already had his hand upon the gate, but he turned, and rapidly went back to meet her.
She stood in the walk where she had stopped when her voice arrested him, breathing quickly. Their eyes met; a painful shadow overcast the face of the young girl, who seemed to be trying in vain to speak.
Mrs. Vervain put on her glasses and peered down at the two with good-natured curiosity.
“Well, madamigella,” said the priest at last, “what do you command me?” He gave a faint, patient sigh.
The tears came into her eyes. “Oh,” she began vehemently, “I wish there was some one who had the right to speak to you!”
“No one,” answered Don Ippolito, “has so much the right as you.”