He is enough； he has to be enough， I'll not get any more. But by God， Ralph de Bricassart， by that God you love more than me， you'll never know what I stole from you-and from Him. I'm never going to tell you about Dane. Oh， my baby！ Shifting on the pillows to settle him more comfortably into the crook of her arm， to see more easily that perfect little face. My baby！ You're mine， and I'm never going to give you up to anyone else. Least of all to your father， who is a priest and can't acknowledge you. Isn't that wonderful？
The boat docked in Genoa at the beginning of April. Archbishop Ralph landed in an Italy bursting into full， Mediterranean spring， and caught a train to Rome. Had he requested it he could have been met， chauffeured in a Vatican car to Rome， but he dreaded to feel the Church close around him again； he wanted to put the moment off as long as he could. The Eternal City. It was truly that， he thought， staring out of the taxi windows at the campaniles and domes， and pigeon-strewn plazas， the ambitious fountains， the Roman columns with their bases buried deep in the centuries. Well， to him they were all superfluities. What mattered to him was the part of Rome called the Vatican， its sumptuous public rooms， its anything but sumptuous private rooms.
A black-and-cream-robed Dominican monk led him through high marble corridors， amid bronze and stone figures worthy of a museum， past great paintings in the styles of Giotto， Raphael， Botticelli， Fra Angelico. He was in the public rooms of a great cardinal， and no doubt the wealthy Contini-Verchese family had given much to enhance their august scion's surroundings.
In a room of ivory and gold， rich with color from tapestries and pictures， French carpeted and furnished， everywhere touches of crimson， sat Vittorio Scarbanza， Cardinal di Contini-Verchese. The small smooth hand， its ruby ring glowing， was extended to him in welcome； glad to fix his eyes downward， Archbishop Ralph crossed the room， knelt， took the hand to kiss the ring. And laid his cheek against the hand， knowing he couldn't lie， though he had meant to right up until the moment his lips touched that symbol of spiritual power， temporal authority.
Cardinal Vittorio put his other hand on the bent shoulder， nodding a dismissal to the monk， then as the door closed softly his hand went from shoulder to hair， rested in its dark thickness， smoothed it back tenderly from the half-averted forehead. It had changed； soon it would be no longer black， but the color of iron. The bent spine stiffened， the shoulders went back， and Archbishop Ralph looked directly up into his master's face. Ah， there had been a change！ The mouth had drawn in， knew pain and was more vulnerable； the eyes， so beautiful in color and shape and setting， were yet completely different from the eyes he still remembered as if bodily they had never left him. Cardinal Vittorio had always had a fancy that the eyes of Jesus were blue， and like Ralph's： calm， removed from what He saw and therefore able to encompass all， understand all. But perhaps it had been a mistaken fancy. How could one feel for humanity and suffer oneself without its showing in the eyes？
"Come， Ralph， sit down."
"Your Eminence， I wish to confess."
"Later， later！ First we will talk， and in English. There are ears everywhere these days， but， thank our dear Jesus， not English-speaking ears. Sit down， Ralph， please. Oh， it is so good to see you！ I have missed your wise counsel， your rationality， your perfect brand of companionship. They have not given me anyone I like half so well as you."
He could feel his brain clicking into the formality already， feel the very thoughts in his mind take on more stilted phrasing； more than most people， Ralph de Bricassart knew how everything about one changed with one's company， even one's speech. Not for these ears the easy fluency of colloquial English. So he sat down not far away， and directly opposite the slight figure in its scarlet moiré， the color changing yet not changing， of a quality which made its edges fuse with the surroundings rather than stand out from them. The desperate weariness he had known for weeks seemed to be easing a little from his shoulders； he wondered why he had dreaded this meeting so， when he had surely known in his heart he would be understood， forgiven. But that wasn't it， not it at all. It was his own guilt at having failed， at being less than he had aspired to be， at disappointing a man who had been interested， tremendously kind， a true friend. His guilt at walking into this pure presence no longer pure himself.
"Ralph， we are priests， but we are something else before that； something we were before we became priests， and which we cannot escape in spite of our exclusiveness. We are men， with the weaknesses and failings of men. There is nothing you can tell me which could alter the impressions I formed of you during our years together， nothing you could tell me which will make me think less of you， or like you less. For many years I have known that you had escaped this realization of our intrinsic weakness， of our humanity， but I knew you must come to it， for we all do. Even the Holy Father， who is the most humble and human of us all."
"I broke my vows， Your Eminence. That isn't easily forgiven. It's sacrilege."
"Poverty you broke years ago， when you accepted the bequest of Mrs. Mary Carson. Which leaves cha/y and obedience， does it not？" "Then all three were broken， Your Eminence."