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may have been brought on by Father Rosary, who
was evidently an artist at creating a pleasant im-
pression and following it up by being the best possible
company. What did he talk about, I wonder, during
that luncheon which has now become a memory of
indistinct delightfulness—as all such luncheons should?

He told us amusing stories; witty stories, well worth
remembering; but I have forgotten them. He spoke
of entrancing places in foreign countries; but I had
never seen them and they were only names which
made me wish I'd been less unenterprising, instead of
waiting for a European war to transport me abroad.
He talked, without ostentation, about famous people
whom he'd known. Who were they, I wonder? I
rather think he mentioned Walter Pater (whose
cadenced prose I had read with more awareness of
its music than of its instructive ingredients) and if he
didn't, he ought to have done. There was indeed an
untranslatably Paterish quality about Father Rosary
when he was being eloquently urbane. I suppose one
should call it "an aroma of humanism55—which
means that his religious vocation had not prevented
him from being helpfully interested in everything
that men think and do.

He was, so to speak, a connoisseur in the wisdom of
the ages, and I can imagine his rich voice rolling out
that fine passage of Pater's which cannot be quoted
too often: "For the essence of humanism is that belief
of which he seems never to have doubted, that nothing
which has ever interested living men and women can
wholly lose its vitality—no language they have spoken,
nor oracle beside which they have hushed their voices,
no dream which has once been entertained by actual
human minds, nothing about which they have ever
been passionate, or expended time and zeal.'*