On 16 April 1932 we had an audience with the Pope. The audience was for one o'clock, and a large crowd, half of whom were Americans, assembled at the appointed hour, but the Pope kept us waiting until half-past two. I didn't understand this at the time, but when I read in William Teeling's Life of Pope Pius XI that he always finished what he was doing, no matter who might be waiting for him, I understood. At last the Pope appeared, clad in white, looking at us benevolently through his spectacles, and it was interesting to think that this same man, years before, had made first ascents in the Alps and several times had spent an entire night on their summits. He blessed us and walked around the room, offering us his ring finger to kiss as we knelt. He looked stoutish, healthy, and rugged. But the ceremony was one which was so often enforced upon him that both his actions and voice were mechanical.