To Ashe, however, it seemed like trifling with
sacred things, and he could not do it. Now as he knelt on the unclean
and uneven floor of that sordid chamber he experienced a peace and a
security such as he had never before known. He was moved almost to
tears; yet he would not yield.
"It is not Rome," he insisted to himself. "It is the simple faith of
these poor souls. That is beautiful and holy. It would be easy for me
to think that I was becoming a Catholic."
He left as soon as the rite was concluded, but the memory of it
remained.
He saw Mrs. Fenton on the afternoon following. He had not been alone
with her since his mad declaration of love. He wished now to meet her
calmly, yet the moment he entered her house his heart quickened its
beating. He was no longer a priest bent on an errand of mercy; he was
an ardent lover, acutely conscious that he was in the rooms through
which she passed day by day, that in a moment he should see her, hear
her voice, perhaps touch her hand. He was shown into the library where
she was sitting, and she rose to greet him frankly and simply.
"She was not touched by what happened in the carriage," Philip said to
himself, with the woeful wisdom of love, "or she could not so
completely ignore it.
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