ambulations. Apparently,
furthermore, it was a story which, as it developed, became less and less
agreeable to the mind of John; for his face, at first all awake with
interest, all aglow with pleasure, gradually sobered, gradually
darkened, took on a frown, expressed dissent, expressed disapprobation,
till, finally, with an impatient movement, he interrupted, and
began--speaking rapidly, heatedly--to protest, to remonstrate.

"Ah," thought Maria Dolores, "the priest is to be made a bishop, sure
enough,--but a missionary bishop. It isn't for nothing that he looks
like an early Christian martyr. He is going to some outlandish, savage
part of the world, where he will be murdered by the natives, or die of
fever or loneliness. He is a man who has listened to the Counsels of
Perfection. But his unascetic friend Prospero (one would say June
remonstrating with December) can't bring himself to like it."

John remonstrated, protested, argued. Winthorpe, calmly, smilingly,
restated his purpose and his motives. John pleaded, implored, appealed
(so the watcher read his gesture) to earth, to heaven. Winthorpe took
his arm, and calmly, smilingly, tried to soothe, tried to convince him.
John drew his arm free, and, employing it to add force and
persuasiveness to his speech, renewed his arguments, pointed out how
unnecessary, inhuman, impossible the whole thing was. "It's monstrous.
It's against all nature. There's no _reason_ in it. What does it _rhyme_
with? It's wilfully going out of your way to seek, to create,
wretchedness. My mind simply refuses to accept it." It was as if Maria
Dolores could hear the words. But Winthorpe, calm and smiling, would not
be moved. John shook his head, muttered, shrugged his shoulders, threw
up his hands, muttered again. "Was ever such pig-headed obstinacy! Was
ever such arbitrary, voluntary blindness! I give you up, for a perverse,
a triple-pated madman!" And so, John muttering and frowning, Winthorpe
serenely smiling, reiterating, they passed round the corner of the
Castle buildings, and were lost to Maria Dolores' view.

III

That afternoon, seated on the moss, under a tall eucalyptus tree near to
Frau Brandt's pavilion, Maria Dolores received a visit from Annunziata.

Annunziata's pale little face was paler, her big grave eyes were graver,
even than their wont. She nodded her head, slowly, portentously; and her
glance was heavy with significance.

Maria Dolores smiled. "What is the m