Peter laughed again.

"I 'm afraid that's more easily said than done."

"Easy!" she exclaimed. "Why, you've only to stand still and
let yourself be sprinkled. It's the priest who does the work.
Don't tell me," she added, with persuasive inconsequence, "that
you'll allow a little thing like being in love with a woman to
keep you back from professing the true faith."

"Ah, if I were convinced that it is true," he sighed, still
laughing.

"What call have you to doubt it? And anyhow, what does it
matter whether you 're convinced or not? I remember, when I
was a school-girl, I never was myself convinced of the theorems
of Euclid; but I professed them gladly, for the sake of the
marks they brought; and the eternal verities of mathematics
remained unshaken by my scepticism."

"Your reasoning is subtle," laughed Peter. "But the worst of
it is, if I were ten times a Catholic, she wouldn't have me.
So what's the use?"

"You never can tell whether a woman will have you or not, until
you offer yourself. And even if she refuses you, is that a
ground for despair? My own husband asked me three times, and
three times I said no. And then he took to writing verses--and
I saw there was but one way to stop him. So we were married.
Ask her; ask her again--and again. You can always resort in