“You never will,” answered the young girl gravely, “if you do not think about it more practically.”
“Practically, practically!” lightly retorted the priest. “What a word with you Americans; That is the consul’s word: practical.”
“Then you have been to see him to-day?” asked Florida, with eagerness. “I wanted to ask you”—
“Yes, I went to consult the oracle, as you bade me.”
“Don Ippolito”—
“And he was averse to my going to America. He said it was not practical.”
“Oh!” murmured the girl.
“I think,” continued the priest with vehemence, “that Signor Ferris is no longer my friend.”
“Did he treat you coldly—harshly?” she asked, with a note of indignation in her voice. “Did he know that I—that you came”—
“Perhaps he was right. Perhaps I shall indeed go to ruin there. Ruin, ruin! Do I not live ruin here?”