When she had first returned to her country there had been a pagan, Swinburnian young man in Asheville, for whose passionate kisses and unsentimental conversations she had taken a decided penchant--they had discussed the matter pro and con with an intellectual romancing quite devoid of sappiness.

Eventually she had decided to marry for background, and the young pagan from Asheville had gone through a spiritual crisis, joined the Catholic Church, and was now--Monsignor Darcy.
"Indeed, Mrs.Blaine, he is still delightful company--quite the cardinal's right-hand man." "Amory will go to him one day, I know," breathed the beautiful lady, "and Monsignor Darcy will understand him as he understood me." Amory became thirteen, rather tall and slender, and more than ever on to his Celtic mother.

He had tutored occasionally--the idea being that he was to "keep up," at each place "taking up the work where he left off," yet as no tutor ever found the place he left off, his mind was still in very good shape.

What a few more years of this life would have made of him is problematical.

However, four hours out from land, Italy bound, with Beatrice, his appendix burst, probably from too many meals in bed, and after a series of frantic telegrams to Europe and America, to the amazement of the passengers the great ship slowly wheeled around and returned to New York to deposit Amory at the pier.