II

Seated at one of the open windows of the pavilion beyond the clock,
Maria Dolores (in a pale green confection of I know not what airy, filmy
tissue) looked down, and somewhat vaguely watched them,--herself
concealed by the netted curtain, which, according to Italian usage, was
hung across the casement, to mitigate the heat and shut out insects. She
watched them at first vaguely, and only from time to time, for the rest
going on with some needlework she had in her lap. But by-and-by she
dropped her needlework altogether, and her watching became continuous
and absorbed.

"What a singular-looking man!" she thought, studying Winthorpe. "What an
ascetic-looking man! He looks like an early Christian martyr. He looks
like a priest. I believe he _is_ a priest. English priests," she
remembered, "when they travel, often dress as laymen. Yes, he is a
priest, and a terribly austere one--I shouldn't like to go to him for
confession. But in spite of his austerity, he seems to be
extraordinarily happy about something just at present. That light in his
eyes,--it is almost a light of ecstasy. It is a light I have never seen
in any eyes, save those of priests and nuns."

Winthorpe, while that "almost ecstatic" light shone in his eyes, had
been speaking.

Now, as he paused, John, with a glance of gay astonishment, halted, and
turned so as to face him. John's lips moved, and it was perfectly plain
that he was exclaiming, delightedly, "Really? _Really_?"

Winthorpe joyously nodded: whereupon John held out both hands, got hold
of his friend's, and, his pink face jubilant, shook them with tremendous
heartiness.

"The priest has received advancement--he is probably to be made a
bishop," inferred Maria Dolores; "and Signor Prospero is congratulating
him."

The men resumed their walk; but for quite a minute John kept his hand on
Winthorpe's shoulder, and again and again gently patted it, murmuring,
"I am so glad, so immensely glad." Maria Dolores was quite sure that
this was what he murmured, for, though no word could reach her, John's
beaming face spoke louder than his voice.

At last John let his hand drop, and, eyebrows raised a little, asked a
question.

"But how did it happen? But tell me all about it," was what he seemed to
say.

And Winthorpe (always with something of that ecstatic light in his eyes)
proceeded to answer. But it was a longish story, and lasted through half
a dozen of their forward and backward