among our priests.  At all the churches, Sunday after Sunday I have looked for a good, a noble face;—­in vain!  For an even commonly-honest face,—­in vain!  And my useless search has ended by impressing me with profound sorrow and disgust that so many low specimens of human intellect are selected as servants of our Lord.  Do not judge me too severely!  I feel that I have a work to do,—­and a lesson to give in the work, when done.  I may fail;—­I may be told that as a woman I have no force, and no ability to make any powerful or lasting impression on this generation;—­but at any rate I feel that I must try!  If priests of the Church were like you, how different it would all be!  But you always forget that you are an exception to the rule,—­you do not realise how very exceptional you are!  I told you before I showed you this sketch that you would probably disapprove of it and condemn me,—­but I really cannot help it.  In this matter nothing—­not even the ban of the Church itself, can deter me from fulfilling what I have designed to do in my own soul!”

She spoke passionately and with ardour,—­and the Cardinal looked at her with something of surprise and trouble.  The fire of genius is as he knew, a consuming one,—­and he had never entirely realized how completely it filled and dominated this slight feminine creature for whom he felt an almost paternal tenderness.  Before he could answer her the Abbe Vergniaud spoke.

“Donna Sovrani is faithful to the truth in her sketch,” he said, “therefore, as a lover of truth I do not see, my dear Bonpre, why you should object!  If she has,—­as she says,—­some great aim in view, she must fulfil it in her own way.  I quite agree with her in her estimate of the French priests,—­they are for the most part despicable-looking persons,—­only just a grade higher than their brothers of Italy and Spain.  But what would you have?  The iron hand of Rome holds them back from progress,—­they are speaking and acting lies; and like the stagemimes, have to put on paint and powder to make the lies go down.  But when the paint and powder come off, the religious mime is often as ill-looking as the stage one!  Donna Sovrani has caught this particular example, before he has had time to put on holy airs and turn up the footlights.  What do you think about it, Mr. Leigh?”

“I think, as I have always thought,” said Leigh quietly, “that Donna Sovrani is an inspired artist,—­and that being inspired it follows that she must carry out her own convictions whether they suit the taste of others or not.  ‘A Servant of Christ’ is a painful truth, boldly declared.”

Angela was unmoved by the compliment implied.  She only glanced wistfully at the Cardinal, who still sat silent.  Then without a word she withdrew the offending sketch from the easel and set another in its place.

“This,” she said gently, “is the portrait of an Archbishop.  I need not name his diocese.  He is very wealthy, and excessively selfish.  I call this, ’lord, I thank thee that I am not as other men’.”