They turned and went into the beautiful church, and found themselves in time for the matin service. Rapt far from New York, if not from earth, in the dim richness of the painted light, the hallowed music took them with solemn ecstasy; the aerial, aspiring Gothic forms seemed to lift them heavenward. They came out, reluctant, into the dazzle and bustle of the street, with a feeling that they were too good for it, which they confessed to each other with whimsical consciousness. “But no matter how consecrated we feel now,” he said, “we mustn't forget that we went into the church for precisely the same reason that we went to the Vienna Cafe for breakfast--to gratify an aesthetic sense, to renew the faded pleasure of travel for a moment, to get back into the Europe of our youth. It was a purely Pagan impulse, Isabel, and we'd better own it.” “I don't know,” she returned. “I think we reduce ourselves to the bare bones too much. I wish we didn't always recognize the facts as we do. Sometimes I should like to blink them. I should like to think I was devouter than I am, and younger and prettier.” “Better not; you couldn't keep it up. Honesty is the best policy even in such things.” “No; I don't like it, Basil. I should rather wait till the last day for some of my motives to come to the top. I know they're always mixed, but do let me give them the benefit of a doubt sometimes.” “Well, well, have it your own way, my dear. But I prefer not to lay up so many disagreeable surprises for myself at that time.” She would not consent. “I know I am a good deal younger than I was. I feel quite in the mood of that morning when we walked down Broadway on our wedding journey. Don't you?” “Oh yes. But I know I'm not younger; I'm only prettier.”