With that answer, she took her mother's arm and left the room.

The moment they were alone, Romayne turned to the priest,
trembling with anger. Father Benwell, smiling indulgently at the

lady's little outbreak, took him by the hand, with peace-making
intentions, "Now don't--pray don't excite yourself!"

Romayne was not to be pacified in that way. His anger was trebly
intensified by the long-continued strain on his nerves of the

effort to control himself.
"I must, and will, speak out at last!" he said. "Father Benwell,

the ladies of my household have inexcusably presumed on the
consideration which is due to women. No words can say how ashamed

I am of what has happened. I can only appeal to your admirable
moderation and patience to accept my apologies, and the most

sincere expression of my regret."
"No more, Mr. Romayne! As a favor to Me, I beg and entreat you

will say no more. Sit down and compose yourself."
But Romayne was impenetrable to the influence of friendly and

forgiving demonstrations. "I can never expect you to enter my
house again!" he exclaimed.

"My dear sir, I will come and see you again, with the greatest
pleasure, on any day that you may appoint--the earlier day the

better. Come! come! let us laugh. I don't say it disrespectfully,
but poor dear Mrs. Eyrecourt has been more amusing than ever. I

expect to see our excellent Archbishop to-morrow, and I must
really tell him how the good lady felt insulted when her Catholic

daughter offered to pray for her. There is hardly anything more
humorous, even in Moliere. And the double chin, and the red

nose--all the fault of those dreadful Papists. Oh, dear me, you
still take it seriously. How I wish you had my sense of humor!

When shall I come again, and tell you how the Archbishop likes
the story of the nun's mother?"

He held out his hand with resistible" target="_blank" title="a.不可抵抗的">irresistiblecordiality. Romayne took
it gratefully--still bent, however, on making atonement.

"Let me first do myself the honor of calling on You," he said. "I
am in no state to open my mind--as I might have wished to open it

to you--after what has happened. In a day or two more--"
"Say the day after to-morrow," Father Benwell hospitably

suggested. "Do me a great favor. Come and eat your bit of mutton
at my lodgings. Six o'clock, if you like--and some remarkably

good claret, a present from one of the Faithful. You will? That's
hearty! And do promise me to think no more of our little domestic

comedy. Relieve your mind. Look at Wiseman's 'Recollections of
the Popes.' Good-by--God bless you!"

The servant who opened the house door for Father Benwell was
agreeably surprised by the Papist's cheerfulness. "He isn't half

a bad fellow," the man announced among his colleagues. "Give me
half-a-crown, and went out humming a tune."

CHAPTER VIII.
FATHER BENWELL'S CORRESPONDENCE

_To the Secretary, S. J., Rome._
I.

I BEG to acknowledge the receipt of your letter. You mention that
our Reverend Fathers are discouraged at not having heard from me

for more than six weeks, since I reported the little dinner given
to Romayne at my lodgings.

I am sorry for this, and more than sorry to hear that my
venerated brethren are beginning to despair of Romayne's

conversion. Grant me a delay of another week--and, if the
prospects of the conversion have not sensibly improved in that

time, I will confess myself defeated. Meanwhile, I bow to
superior wisdom, without venturing to add a word in my own

defense.
II.

The week's grace granted to me has elapsed. I write with
humility. At the same time I have something to say for myself.

Yesterday, Mr. Lewis Romayne, of Vange Abbey, was received into
the community of the Holy Catholic Church. I inclose an accurate

newspaper report of the ceremonies which attended the conversion.
Be pleased to inform me, by telegraph, whether our Reverend

Fathers wish me to go on, or not.
BOOK THE FIFTH.

CHAPTER I.
MRS. EYRECO URT'S DISCOVERY.

THE leaves had fallen in the grounds at Ten Acres Lodge, and
stormy winds told drearily that winter had come.

An unchanging dullness pervaded the house. Romayne was constantly
absent in London, attending to his new religious duties under the

guidance of Father Benwell. The litter of books and manuscripts
in the study was seen no more. Hideously rigid order reigned in

the unused room. Some of Romayne's papers had been burned; others
were imprisoned in drawers and cupboards--the history of the

Origin of Religions had taken its melancholy place among the
suspended literary enterprises of the time. Mrs. Eyrecourt (after

a superficially cordialreconciliation with her son-in-law)
visited her daughter every now and then, as an act of maternal

sacrifice. She yawned perpetually; she read innumerable novels;
she corresponded with her friends. In the long dull evenings, the

once-lively lady sometimes openly regretted that she had not been
born a man--with the three masculine resources of smoking,

drinking, and swearing placed at her disposal. It was a dreary
existence, and happier influences seemed but little likely to

change it. Grateful as she was to her mother, no persuasion would
induce Stella to leave Ten Acres and amuse herself in London.

Mrs. Eyrecourt said, with melancholy and metaphorical truth,
"There is no elasticity left in my child."

On a dim gray morning, mother and daughter sat by the fireside,
with another long day before them.

"Where is that contemptible husband of yours?" Mrs. Eyrecourt
asked, looking up from her book.

"Lewis is staying in town," Stella answered listlessly.
"In company with Judas Iscariot?"

Stella was too dull to immediately understand the allusion. "Do
you mean Father Benwell?" she inquired.

"Don't mention his name, my dear. I have re-christened him on
purpose to avoid it. Even his name humiliates me. How completely

the fawning old wretch took me in--with all my knowledge of the
world, too! He was so nice and sympathetic--such a comforting

contrast, on that occasion, to you and your husband--I declare I
forgot every reason I had for not trusting him. Ah, we women are

poor creatures--we may own it among ourselves. If a man only has
nice manners and a pleasant voice, how many of us can resist him?

Even Romayne imposed upon me--assisted by his property, which in
some degree excuses my folly. There is nothing to be done now,

Stella, but to humor him. Do as that detestable priest does, and
trust to your beauty (there isn't as much of it left as I could

wish) to turn the scale in your favor. Have you any idea when the
new convert will come back? I heard him ordering a fish dinner

for himself, yesterday--because it was Friday. Did you join him
at dessert-time, profanely supported by meat? What did he say?"

"What he has said more than once already, mama. His peace of mind
is returning, thanks to Father Benwell. He was perfectly gentle

and indulgent--but he looked as if he lived in a different world
from mine. He told me he proposed to pass a week in, what he

called, Retreat. I didn't ask him what it meant. Whatever it is,
I suppose he is there now."

"My dear, don't you remember your sister began in the same way?
_She_ retreated. We shall have Romayne with a red nose and a

double chin, offering to pray for us next! Do you recollect that
French maid of mine--the woman I sent away, because she would

spit, when she was out of temper, like a cat? I begin to think I