very spendthrift with his gladness.

At the church to the left of the square, the Duchessa paused.

"In here first," she said. And Antony followed her up the steps.

They made their way through a swarm of grubby children, and entered the
porch. It was cool and dark in the church in contrast to the heat and
sunshine without. Here and there Antony descried a kneeling
figure,--women with handkerchiefs on their heads, and a big basket beside
them; an old man or two; a girl telling her beads before the Lady Altar;
and a small dark-haired child, who gazed stolidly at the Duchessa. Votive
candles burned before the various shrines. The ruby lamp made a spot of
light in the shadows above the High Altar.

The Duchessa dropped on one knee, and then knelt for a few moments at one
of the _prie-dieux_. Antony watched her. He was sensible that she was not
a mere sight-seer. The church held an element of home for her. Two of the
passengers--the young man and the cynical elderly gentleman, who had been
in the boat with them--strolled in behind him. They gazed curiously
about, remarking in loudish whispers on what they saw. Antony felt
suddenly, and quite unreasonably, annoyed at their entry. Somehow they
detracted from the harmony and peace of the building.

"I didn't know you were a Catholic," he said five minutes later, as he
and the Duchessa emerged once more into the sunlight.

"You never asked me," she returned smiling.

"No," agreed Antony. And then he added simply, as an afterthought, "it
didn't occur to me to ask you."

"It wouldn't," responded the Duchessa, a little twinkle in her eyes.

"No," agreed Antony again. "I wish those people hadn't come in," he added
somewhat irrelevantly.

"What people?" demanded the Duchessa. "Oh, you mean those two men. Why
not? Most tourists visit the church."

"I dare say," returned Antony. "But--well, they didn't belong."

"No?" queried the Duchessa innocently.

Antony reddened.

"You mean I didn't," he said a little stiffly.

"Ah, forgive me." The Duchessa's voice held a note of quick contrition.
"I didn't mean to hurt you. Somehow we Catholics get used to Protestants
regarding our churches merely as a sight to be seen, and for the moment I
smiled to think that _you_ should be the one whom it irritated. But I do
know what you mean, of course. And--I'm _glad_ you felt it."

"Thank you," he returned smiling.

The little cloud, which had momentarily dimmed the brightness of his