And Rowland felt that whatever she said of herself might have
been, under the imagined circumstances; impulse was there, audacity, the
restless, questioning temperament. "I am afraid I am sadly prosaic,"
he said, "for in these many months now that I have been in Rome, I
have never ceased for a moment to look at Catholicism simply from the
outside. I don't see an opening as big as your finger-nail where I could
creep into it!"
"What do you believe?" asked Christina, looking at him. "Are you
religious?"
"I believe in God."
Christina let her beautiful eyes wander a while, and then gave a little
sigh. "You are much to be envied!"
"You, I imagine, in that line have nothing to envy me."
"Yes, I have. Rest!"
"You are too young to say that."
"I am not young; I have never been young! My mother took care of that. I
was a little wrinkled old woman at ten."
"I am afraid," said Rowland, in a moment, "that you are fond of painting
yourself in dark colors."
She looked at him a while in silence. "Do you wish," she demanded at
last, "to win my eternal gratitude? Prove to me that I am better than I
suppose.
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