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Amory, Son of Beatrice
Still,nexttodoctors,priestswereherfavoritesport.
"Ah,BishopWiston,"shewoulddeclare,"Idonotwanttotalkofmyself.Icanimaginethestreamofhystericalwomenflutteringatyourdoors,beseechingyoutobesimpatico"—thenafteraninterludefilledbytheclergyman—"butmymood—is—oddlydissimilar."
Onlytobishopsandabovedidshedivulgeherclericalromance.Whenshehadfirstreturnedtohercountrytherehadbeenapagan,SwinburnianyoungmaninAsheville,forwhosepassionatekissesandunsentimentalconversationsshehadtakenadecidedpenchant—theyhaddiscussedthematterproandconwithanintellectualromancingquitedevoidofsappiness.Eventuallyshehaddecidedtomarryforbackground,andtheyoungpaganfromAshevillehadgonethroughaspiritualcrisis,joinedtheCatholicChurch,andwasnow—MonsignorDarcy.
"Indeed,Mrs.Blaine,heisstilldelightfulcompany—quitethecardinal’sright-handman."
"Amorywillgotohimoneday,Iknow,"breathedthebeautifullady,"andMonsignorDarcywillunderstandhimasheunderstoodme."
Amorybecamethirteen,rathertallandslender,andmorethaneverontohisCelticmother.Hehadtutoredoccasionally—theideabeingthathewasto"keepup,"ateachplace"takinguptheworkwhereheleftoff,"yetasnotutoreverfoundtheplaceheleftoff,hismindwasstillinverygoodshape.Whatafewmoreyearsofthislifewouldhavemadeofhimisproblematical.
