doesn't sleep because his daughter is going to marry an Italian count.
There's Latouche. His place in the cabinet is begotten in corruption,
in the hotbed of faction war. There's Kenealy. His wife has led him a
dance of deep damnation. There's the lot of them--every one, not an
ounce of peace among them, except with old Casson, who weighs eighteen
stone, lives like a pig, grows stuffier in mind and body every day, and
drinks half a bottle of whiskey every night. There's no one else--yes,
there is!"

He was looking at a small black-robed figure with clean-shaven face,
white hair, and shovel-hat, who passed slowly along the wooden walk
beneath, with meditative content in his face.

"There's peace," he said with a laugh. "I've known Father Hallon for
twenty-five years, and no man ever worked so hard, ever saw more trouble,
ever shared other people's bad luck mere than he; ever took the bit in
his teeth, when it was a matter of duty, stronger than he; and yet
there's peace; he has it; a peace that passes all understanding--mine
anyhow. I've never had a minute's real peace. The World, or Nature, or
God, or It, whatever the name is, owes me peace. And how is It to give
it? Why, by answering my questions. Now it's a curious thing that the
only person I ever met who could answer any questions of mine--answer
them in the way that satisfies--is Suzon. She works things down to
phrases. She has wisdom in the raw, and a real grip on life, and yet all
the men she has known have been river-drivers and farmers, and a few men
from town who mistook the sort of Suzon she is. Virtuous and straight,
she's a born child of Aphrodite too--by nature. She was made for love.
A thousand years ago she would have had a thousand loves! And she thinks
the world is a magnificent place, and she loves it, and wallows--fairly
wallows--in content. Now which is right: Suzon or Father Hallon--