“I think, padre,” said Jekyl, “that more of your English converts are made upon principles of pure economy. Popery, like truffles, is so cheap abroad!” “Away with you! away with you!” cried the padre, rebukingly. “They come to us as the children seek their mother's breast. Hand me the maccaroni.” “Padre mio,” broke in Jekyl, “I wish you would be Catholic enough to be less Popish. We have other plots in hand here, besides increasing the funds of the 'Holy Carmelites;' and while we are disputing about the spoil, the game may betake themselves to other hunting-grounds. These Onslows must not be suffered to go hence.” “Albert is right,” interposed Nina. “When the 'Midchekoff' condescends to think himself in love with the Dalton girl, when the Guardsman has lost some thousands more than he can pay, when my Lady has offended one half of Florence and bullied the other, then the city will have taken a hold upon their hearts, and you may begin your crusade when you please. Indeed, I am not sure, if the season be a dull one, I would not listen to you myself.” “As you listened once before to the Abbe D'Esmonde,” said the canon, maliciously. The girl's cheek became deep red, and even over neck and shoulders the scarlet flush spread, while her eyes flashed a look of fiery passion. “Do you dare are you insolent enough to--” Her indignation had carried her thus far, when, by a sudden change of temper, she stopped, and clasping her hands over her face, burst into tears. Jekyl motioned the priest to be silent, while, gently leading the other into the adjoining room, he drew the curtain, and left her alone. “How could you say that?” said he, “you, padre, who know that this is more than jest?” “Spare not the sinner, neither let the stripes be light, 'Non sit levis flagella,' says Origen.” “Are the ortolans good, padre?” asked Jekyl, while his eye glittered with an intense appreciation of the old canon's hypocrisy. “They, are delicious! succulent and tender,” said the priest, wiping his lips. “Francesco does them to perfection.” “You at least believe in a cook,” said Jekyl, but in so low a voice as to escape the other's notice. “She is sobbing still,” said the canon, in a whisper, and with a gesture towards the curtained doorway. “I like to hear them gulping down their sighs. It is like the glug-glug of a rich flask of 'Lagrime.'” “But don't you pity them, padre?” asked Jekyl, in mock earnestness. “Never! never! First of all, they do not suffer in all these outbursts. It is but decanting their feelings into another vessel, and they love it themselves! I have had them for hours together thus in the confessional, and they go away after, so relieved in mind and so light of heart, there 's no believing it.” “But Nina,” said Jekyl, seriously, “is not one of these.” “She is a woman,” rejoined the padre, “and it is only a priest can read them.”