Helbeck smiled.

"Mercifully, darling, the ideals of the Catholic Church do not depend
upon the votes of Ethical Societies!"

He turned his handsome head towards her. His tone was perfectly gentle,
but behind it she perceived the breathing of a contempt before which she
first recoiled--then sprang in revolt.

"As for me," she said, panting a little, "when I finished the Life this
morning in your room, I felt like Ivan in Browning's poem--do you
recollect?--about the mother who threw her children one by one to the
wolves, to save her wretched self? I would like to have dropped the axe
on St. Francis Borgia's neck--just one--little--clean cut!--while he was
saying his prayers, and enjoying his burning love, and all the rest of
it!"

Helbeck was silent, nor could she see his face, which was again turned
from her towards the river. The eager feverish voice went on:

"Do you know that's the kind of thing you read always--always--day after
day? And it's just the same now! That girl of twenty-three, Augustina was
talking of, who is going into a convent, and her mother only died last
year, and there are six younger brothers and sisters, and her father says
it will break his heart--_she_ must have been reading about St. Francis
Borgia. Perhaps she felt 'burning love' and had 'floods of tears.' But
Ivan with his axe--that's the person I'd bring in, if I could!"

Still not a word from the man beside her. She hesitated a moment--felt a