Mind you, she loved him, they were engaged to be married. Well, he went
to her, and said, 'I have been converted. I believe in the Christian
religion--your religion. But I can't believe a thing like that, and go
on living as I lived when I didn't believe it,--go on living as if it
weren't true, or didn't matter. It does matter--it matters
supremely--it's the only thing in the world that matters. I can't
believe it, and _marry_--marry, and live in tranquil indifference to it.
No, I must put aside the thought of marriage, the thought of personal
happiness. I must sell all I have and give it to the poor, take up my
cross and follow Him. I am going to Rome to study for the priesthood.'
Imagine," groaned John, stretching out his hands, "_imagine_ talking
like that to a woman you are supposed to love, to a woman who loves
you." And he wrathfully ground his heel into the earth.

Maria Dolores looked serious.

"After all, he had to obey his conscience," she said. "After all, he was
logical, he was consistent."

"Oh, his conscience! Oh, consistency!" cried John, with an intolerant
fling of the body. "At bottom it's nothing better than common
self-indulgence, as I took the liberty of telling him to his face. It's
the ardour of the convert, acting upon that acid solution of flint which
takes the place of blood in his veins, and causing sour puritanical
impulses, which (like any other voluptuary) he immediately gives way to.
It's nothing better than unbridled passion. Conscience, indeed! Where
was his conscience when it came to _her_? Think of that poor girl--that
poor pale girl--who _loved_ him. Oh, Mother of Mercy!"

He moved impatiently three steps to the left, three steps to the right,