"Yes, so she is," said the painter dryly, and looked in annoyance from the priest to the picture, and from the picture to the priest.
After a minute Don Ippolito said, "They must be very rich to live as they do."
"I don't know about that," replied Ferris. "Americans spend and save in ways different from the Italians. I dare say the Vervains find Venice very cheap after London and Paris and Berlin."
"Perhaps," said Don Ippolito, "if they were rich you would be in a position to marry her."
"I should not marry Miss Vervain for her money," answered the painter, sharply.
"No, but if you loved her, the money would enable you to marry her."
"Listen to me, Don Ippolito. I never said that I loved Miss Vervain, and I don't know how you feel warranted in speaking to me about the matter. Why do you do so?"
"I? Why? I could not but imagine that you must love her. Is there anything wrong in speaking of such things? Is it contrary to the American custom? I ask pardon from my heart if I have done anything amiss."
"There is no offense," said the painter, with a laugh, "and I don't wonder you thought I ought to be in love with Miss Vervain. She _is_ beautiful, and I believe she's good. But if men had to marry because women were beautiful and good, there isn't one of us could live single a day. Besides, I'm the victim of another passion,--I'm laboring under an unrequited affection for Art."
"Then you do _not_ love her?" asked Don Ippolito, eagerly.
"So far as I'm advised at present, no, I don't."
"It is strange!" said the priest, absently, but with a glowing face.
He quitted the painter's and walked swiftly homeward with a triumphant buoyancy of step. A subtle content diffused itself over his face, and a joyful light burnt in his deep eyes. He sat down before the piano and organ as he had arranged them, and began to strike their keys in unison; this seemed to him for the first time childish. Then he played some lively bars on the piano alone; they sounded too light and trivial, and he turned to the other instrument. As the plaint of the reeds arose, it filled his sense like a solemn organ-music, and transfigured the place; the notes swelled to the ample vault of a church, and at the high altar he was celebrating the mass in his sacerdotal robes. He suddenly caught his fingers away from the keys; his breast heaved, he hid his face in his hands.