Monsignore smiled a gentle reproof.
"'Your Eminence!' You give me too high a title, my son."
"Forgive me a mistake the world will soon ratify! I only anticípate the future by a month or two."
Giulio Villaflor was flattered; courted though he was, he was not aboye the bait to his vanity and his ambition. The Cardinal's hat was the goal of his daring yet wary desires, and in his own mind he foresaw himself soon or late a second Leo X; Pontifex Maximus in all the ancient power of the Papal tiara.
He let his eyes rest for a long moment on those of his companion; they were the deep, soft, full Italian eyes, like the brown, gentle, luminous eyes of the oxen of the Apennines; they could be tender in love as those of Venus Pandemos, they could be spiritual in religion as those of Leonardo's John, but also, they could be impenetrable as those of Talleyrand, they could be piercing in meaning and in discovery as those of Aquaviva, when, instead of the smile of the lover, or the benignity of the priest, he wore the mask of the diplomatist and politician.
"We understand each other, figlio mio?" he said,
