person. Soldiers and--clergymen--are so much more stylish in their own
dress--not stylish, exactly, but taking; don't you know?"

"There, Don Ippolito," interposed Ferris, "you had better put on your
talare and your nicchio again. Your _abbate's_ dress isn't
acceptable, you see."

The painter spoke in Italian, but Don Ippolito answered--with certain
blunders which it would be tedious to reproduce--in his patient,
conscientious English, half sadly, half playfully, and glancing at
Florida, before he turned to Mrs. Vervain, "You are as rigid as the
rest of the world, madama. I thought you would like this dress, but it
seems that you think it a masquerade. As madamigella says, it is a
relief to lay aside the uniform, now and then, for us who fight the
spiritual enemies as well as for the other soldiers. There was one
time, when I was younger and in the subdiaconate orders, that I put off
the priest's dress altogether, and wore citizen's clothes, not an
abbate's suit like this. We were in Padua, another young priest and I,
my nearest and only friend, and for a whole night we walked about the
streets in that dress, meeting the students, as they strolled singing
through the moonlight; we went to the theatre and to the caffe,--we
smoked cigars, all the time laughing and trembling to think of the
tonsure under our hats. But in the morning we had to put on the
stockings and the talare and the nicchio again."

Don Ippolito gave a melancholy laugh. He had thrust the corner of his
napkin into his collar; seeing that Ferris had not his so, he twitched
it out, and made a feint of its having been all the time in his lap.
Every one was silent as if something shocking had been said; Florida
looked with grave rebuke at Don Ippolito, whose story affected Ferris