The library door was thrown open by a servant. Stella herself
entered the room.

CHAPTER VIII.
THE PRIEST OR THE WOMAN?

LORD LORING hurried away to his dressing room. "I won't be more
than ten minutes," he said--and left Romayne and Stella together.

She was attired with her customary love of simplicity. White lace
was the only ornament on her dress of delicatesilvery gray. Her

magnificent hair was left to plead its own merits, without
adornment of any sort. Even the brooch which fastened her lace

pelerine was of plain gold only. Conscious that she was showing
her beauty to the greatest advantage in the eyes of a man of

taste, she betrayed a little of the embarrassment which Romayne
had already noticed at the moment when she gave him her hand.

They were alone, and it was the first time she had seen him in
evening dress.

It may be that women have no positiveappreciation of what is
beautiful in form and color--or it may be that they have no

opinions of their own when the laws of fashion have spoken. This
at least is certain, that not one of them in a thousand sees

anything objectionable in the gloomy and hideous evening costume
of a gentleman in the nineteenth century. A handsome man is, to

their eyes, more seductive than ever in the contemptible black
coat and the stiff white cravat which he wears in common with the

servant who waits on him at table. After a stolen glance at
Romayne, Stella lost all confidence in herself--she began turning

over the photographs on the table.
The momentary silence which followed their first greeting became

intolerable to her. Rather than let it continue, she impulsively
confessed the uppermost idea in her mind when she entered the

room.
"I thought I heard my name when I came in," she said. "Were you

and Lord Loring speaking of me?"
Romayne owned without hesitation that they had been speaking of

her.
She smiled and turned over another photograph. But when did

sun-pictures ever act as a restraint on a woman's curiosity? The
words passed her lips in spite of her. "I suppose I mustn't ask

what you were saying?"
It was impossible to answer this plainly without entering into

explanations from which Romayne shrank. He hesitated.
She turned over another photograph. "I understand," she said.

"You were talking of my faults." She paused, and stole another
look at him. "I will try to correct my faults, if you will tell

me what they are."
Romayne felt that he had no alternative but to tell the

truth--under certain reserves. "Indeed you are wrong," he said.
"We were talking of the influence of a tone or a look on a

sensitive person."
"The influence on Me?" she asked.

"No. The influence which You might exercise on another person."
She knew perfectly well that he was speaking of himself. But she

was determined to feel the pleasure of making him own it.
"If I have any such influence as you describe," she began, "I

hope it is for good?"
"Certainly for good."

"You speak positively, Mr. Romayne. Almost as positively--only
that can hardly be--as if you were speaking from experience."

He might still have evaded a direct reply, if she had been
content with merely saying this. But she looked at him while she

spoke. He answered the look.
"Shall I own that you are right?" he said. "I was thinking of my

own experience yesterday."
She returned to the photographs. "It sounds impossible," she

rejoined, softly. There was a pause. "Was it anything I said?"
she asked.

"No. It was only when you looked at me. But for that look, I
don't think I should have been here to-day."

She shut up the photographs on a sudden, and drew her chair a
little away from him.

"I hope," she said, "you have not so poor an opinion of me as to
think I like to be flattered?"

Romayne answered with an earnestness that instantly satisfied
her.

"I should think it an act of insolence to flatter you," he said.
"If you knew the true reason why I hesitated to accept Lady

Loring's invitation--if I could own to you the new hope for
myself that has brought me here--you would feel, as I feel, that

I have been only speaking the truth. I daren't say yet that I owe
you a debt of gratitude for such a little thing as a look. I must

wait till time puts certain strange fancies of mine to the
proof."

"Fancies about me, Mr. Romayne?"
Before he could answer, the dinner bell rang. Lord and Lady

Loring entered the library together.
The dinner having pursued its appointed course (always excepting

the case of the omelet), the head servant who had waited at table
was graciously invited to rest, after his labors, in the

housekeeper's room. Having additionally conciliated him by means
of a glass of rare liqueur, Miss Notman, still feeling her

grievance as acutely as ever, ventured to inquire, in the first
place, if the gentlefolks upstairs had enjoyed their dinner. So

far the report was, on the whole, favorable. But the conversation
was described as occasionally flagging. The burden of the talk

had been mainly borne by my lord and my lady, Mr. Romayne and
Miss Eyrecourt contributing but little to the social enjoyment of

the evening. Receiving this information without much appearance
of interest, the housekeeper put another question, to which,

judging by her manner, she attached a certain importance. She
wished to know if the oyster-omelet (accompanying the cheese) had

been received as a welcome dish, and treated with a just
recognition of its merits. The answer to this was decidedly in

the negative. Mr. Romayne and Miss Eyrecourt had declined to
taste it. My lord had tried it, and had left it on his plate. My

lady alone had really eaten her share of the misplaced dish.
Having stated this apparentlytrivial circumstance, the head

servant was surprised by the effect which it produced on the
housekeeper. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes,

with an appearance of unutterable enjoyment. That night there was
one supremely happy woman in London. And her name was Miss

Notman.
Ascending from the housekeeper's room to the drawing-room, it is

to be further reported that music was tried, as a means of
getting through the time, in the absence of general conversation.

Lady Loring sat down at the piano, and played as admirably as
usual. At the other end of the room Romayne and Stella were

together, listening to the music. Lord Loring, walking backward
and forward, with a restlessness which was far from being

characteristic of him in his after-dinner hours, was stopped when
he reached the neighborhood of the piano by a private signal from

his wife.
"What are you walking about for?" Lady Loring asked in a whisper,

without interrupting her musical performance.
"I'm not quite easy, my dear."

"Turn over the music. Indigestion?"