Romayne could not resist interrupting him.  “Say you have killed one of your fellow-creatures,” he suggested.

“Very well.  If I know that I really meant to kill him, for some vile purpose of my own; and if (which by no means always follows) I am really capable of feeling the enormity of my own crime—­that is, as I think, true remorse.  Murderer as I am, I have, in that case, some moral worth still left in me.  But if I did not mean to kill the man—­if his death was my misfortune as well as his—­and if (as frequently happens) I am nevertheless troubled by remorse, the true cause lies in my own inability fairly to realize my own motives—­before I look to results.  I am the ignorant victim of false remorse; and if I will only ask myself boldly what has blinded me to the true state of the case, I shall find the mischief due to that misdirected appreciation of my own importance which is nothing but egotism in disguise.”

“I entirely agree with you,” said Father Benwell; “I have had occasion to say the same thing in the confessional.”

Mr. Winterfield looked at his dog, and changed the subject.  “Do you like dogs, Mr. Romayne?” he asked.  “I see my spaniel’s eyes saying that he likes you, and his tail begging you to take some notice of him.”

Romayne caressed the dog rather absently.

His new friend had unconsciously presented to him a new view of the darker aspect of his own life.  Winterfield’s refined, pleasant manners, his generous readiness in placing the treasures of his library at a stranger’s disposal, had already appealed irresistibly to Romayne’s sensitive nature.  The favorable impression was now greatly strengthened by the briefly bold treatment which he had just heard of a subject in which he was seriously interested.  “I must see more of this man,” was his thought, as he patted the companionable spaniel.

Father Benwell’s trained observation followed the vivid changes of expression on Romayne’s face, and marked the eager look in his eyes as he lifted his head from the dog to the dog’s master.  The priest saw his opportunity and took it.

“Do you remain long at Ten Acres Lodge?” he said to Romayne.

“I hardly know as yet.  We have no other plans at present.”

“You inherit the place, I think, from your late aunt, Lady Berrick?”

“Yes.”

The tone of the reply was not encouraging; Romayne felt no interest in talking of Ten Acres Lodge.  Father Benwell persisted.

“I was told by Mrs. Eyrecourt,” he went on “that Lady Berrick had some fine pictures.  Are they still at the Lodge?”

“Certainly.  I couldn’t live in a house without pictures.”

Father Benwell looked at Winterfield.  “Another taste in common between you and Mr. Romayne,” he said, “besides your liking for dogs.”

This at once produced the desired result.  Romayne eagerly invited Winterfield to see his pictures.  “There are not many of them,” he said.  “But they are really worth looking at.  When will you come?”