From our point of view this was a frame of mind to be encouraged.  I tried the experiment of modestly taking the blame on myself.  I suggested that I might be (quite innocently) answerable for Romayne’s disappointment.

He looked at me thoroughly puzzled.  I repeated what I had said to Winterfield.  “Did you mention to Mrs. Romayne that I was the means of introducing you—?”

He was too impatient to let me finish the sentence.  “I did mention it to Mrs. Romayne,” he said.  “And what of it?”

“Pardon me for reminding you that Mrs. Romayne has Protestant prejudices,” I rejoined.  “Mr. Winterfield would, I fear, not be very welcome to her as the friend of a Catholic priest.”

He was almost angry with me for suggesting the very explanation which had proved so acceptable to Winterfield.

“Nonsense!” he cried.  “My wife is far too well-bred a woman to let her prejudices express themselves in that way.  Winterfield’s personal appearance must have inspired her with some unreasonable antipathy, or—­”

He stopped, and turned away thoughtfully to the window.  Some vague suspicion had probably entered his mind, which he had only become aware of at that moment, and which he was not quite able to realize as yet.  I did my best to encourage the new train of thought.

“What other reason can there be?” I asked.

He turned on me sharply.  “I don’t know.  Do you?”

I ventured on a courteous remonstrance.  “My dear sir! if you can’t find another reason, how can I?  It must have been a sudden antipathy, as you say.  Such things do happen between strangers.  I suppose I am right in assuming that Mrs. Romayne and Mr. Winterfield are strangers?”

His eyes flashed with a sudden sinister brightness—­the new idea had caught light in his mind.  “They met as strangers,” he said.

There he stopped again, and returned to the window.  I felt that I might lose the place I had gained in his confidence if I pressed the subject any further.  Besides, I had my reasons for saying a word about Penrose next.  As it happened, I had received a letter from him, relating to his present employment, and sending kindest regards to his dear friend and master in the postscript.

I gave the message.  Romayne looked round, with an instant change in his face.  The mere sound of Penrose’s name seemed to act as a relief to the gloom and suspicion that had oppressed him the moment before.  “You don’t know how I miss the dear gentle little fellow,” he said, sadly.

“Why not write to him?” I suggested.  “He would be so glad to hear from you again.”

“I don’t know where to write.”

“Did I not send you his address when I forwarded your letter to him?”

“No.”

“Then let me atone for my forgetfulness at once.”

I wrote down the address, and took my leave.

As I approached the door I noticed on a side table the Catholic volumes which Penrose left with Romayne.  One of them was open, with a pencil lying beside it.  I thought that a good sign—­but I said nothing.