Well, after he had lunched I told him that I wished to take his advice
upon something connected with the church, (for a prayer-book
_is,_ you know, dear,) and he looked so sweetly at me, that,
would you believe it, I almost wished to be a Catholic, and to confess
three or four times a week, and to have him for my confessor. But it's
very wicked to wish to be a Catholic, and it wasn't real much, you
know; but somehow I thought so. When I asked him in what velvet he
would advise me to have my prayer-book bound, he talked beautifully
for about twenty minutes. I wish you could have heard him. I'm not
sure that I understood much of what he said--how should I?--but it
was very beautiful. Don't laugh, Carrie, but there was one thing I
did understand, and which, as it came pretty often, quite helped me
through: it was, "Dear Mrs. Potiphar;" you can't tell how nicely he
says it. He began by telling me that it was very important to consider
all the details and little things about the church. He said they were
all Timbales or Cymbals--or something of that kind; and then he
talked very prettily about the stole, and the violet and scarlet capes
of the cardinals, and purple chasubles, and the lace edge of the
Pope's little short gown; and--do you know it was very funny--but it
seemed to me, somehow, as if I was talking with Portier or Florine
Lefevre, except that he used such beautiful words. Well, by and by, he
said:--

"Therefore, dear Mrs. Potiphar, as your faith is so pure and
childlike, and as I observe that the light from the yellow panes
usually falls across your pew, I would advise that you cymbalize your
faith (wouldn't that be noisy in church?) by binding your prayer-book
in pale blue; the color of skim-milk, dear Mrs. Potiphar, which is so
full of pastoral associations."