He comes of a long line of bigoted Protestants, he's a reincarnation of
some of his stern old Puritan forebears, and you find that he looks like
their pet abomination, a Romish priest. Well, you have a prophetic eye."

Maria Dolores gazed up inquiringly. "A prophetic eye?" she questioned.

"I merely mean," said John, with thaumaturgic airiness, "that the man is
on his way to Rome to study for the priesthood." And he gave a
thaumaturgic toss to his bearded chin.

"Oh!" cried Maria Dolores, and leaned back against her eucalyptus tree,
and laughed again.

John, however, dejectedly shook his head, and gloomed.

"Laugh if you will," he said, "though it seems to me as far as possible
from a laughing matter, and I think Annunziata chose the better part
when she cried."

"I beg your pardon," said Maria Dolores, perhaps a trifle stiffly. "I
was only laughing at the coincidence of my having supposed him to be a
priest, and then learning that, though he isn't, he is going to become
one. I was not laughing at the fact itself. Nor was it," she added, her
stiffness leaving her, and a little glimmer of amusement taking its
place, "that fact which made Annunziata cry."

"I dare say not," responded John, "seeing that she couldn't possibly
have known it. But it might well have done so. It's enough to bring
tears to the eyes of a brazen image." He angrily jerked his shoulders.