“I know it’s not good,” said the painter. “It is conventional, in spite of everything. But here’s that first sketch I made of you.”
He took up a canvas facing the wall, and set it on the easel. The character in this charcoal sketch was vastly sincerer and sweeter.
“Ah!” said Don Ippolito, with a sigh and smile of relief, “that is immeasurably better. I wish I could speak to you, dear friend, in a mood of yours as sympathetic as this picture records, of some matters that concern me very nearly. I have just come from the railroad station.”
“Seeing some friends off?” asked the painter, indifferently, hovering near the sketch with a bit of charcoal in his hand, and hesitating whether to give it a certain touch. He glanced with half-shut eyes at the priest.
Don Ippolito sighed again. “I hardly know. I was seeing off my hopes, my desires, my prayers, that followed the train to America!”
The painter put down his charcoal, dusted his fingers, and looked at the priest without saying anything.
“Do you remember when I first came to you?” asked Don Ippolito.
“Certainly,” said Ferris. “Is it of that matter you want to speak to me? I’m very sorry to hear it, for I don’t think it practical.”
“Practical, practical!” cried the priest hotly. “Nothing is practical till it has been tried. And why should I not go to America?”
“Because you can’t get your passport, for one thing,” answered the painter dryly.