He
smiled quickly when I raved of music, but the moment I drifted into the
theme of mysticism--the transposition is ever an easy one--I saw his
interest leap to meet mine.
"So, you have read St. John of the Cross?" I nodded my head.
"And St. Teresa, that marvellous woman? The Americans puzzle me," he
continued. "You are the most practical people on the globe and yet the
most idealistic. When I hear of a new religion, I am morally certain
that it is evolved in America."
"A new religion!" I started. This phrase had often assailed me, both in
print and in the depths of my imagination. He divined my thought--ah! he
was a wonder-worker in the way he noted a passing _nuance_.
"When we wear out the old one, it will be time for a new religion," he
blandly announced; "you Americans, because of your new mechanical
inventions, fancy you have free entry into the domain of the spiritual.
But come, my dear young friend. Here is my hotel. Can't I invite you to
dinner?" We had reached the Boulevard Malsherbe and, as I was miles out
of my course, I consented.
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