“I won’t attempt to combat your prejudices,” he said.  “But one thing I must seriously ask of you.  When my friend Penrose comes here to-morrow, don’t treat him as you treated Mr. Winterfield.”

There was a momentary paleness in her face which looked like fear, but it passed away again.  She confronted him firmly with steady eyes.

“Why do you refer again to that?” she asked.  “Is—­” (she hesitated and recovered herself)—­“Is Mr. Winterfield another devoted friend of yours?”

He walked to the door, as if he could hardly trust his temper if he answered her—­stopped—­and, thinking better of it, turned toward her again.

“We won’t quarrel, Stella,” he rejoined; “I will only say I am sorry you don’t appreciate my forbearance.  Your reception of Mr. Winterfield has lost me the friendship of a man whom I sincerely liked, and who might have assisted my literary labors.  You were ill at the time, and anxious about Mrs. Eyrecourt.  I respected your devotion to your mother.  I remembered your telling me, when you first went away to nurse her, that your conscience accused you of having sometimes thoughtlessly neglected your mother in her days of health and good spirits, and I admired the motive of atonement which took you to her bedside.  For those reasons I shrank from saying a word that might wound you.  But, because I was silent, it is not the less true that you surprised and disappointed me.  Don’t do it again!  Whatever you may privately think of Catholic priests, I once more seriously request you not to let Penrose see it.”

He left the room.

She stood, looking after him as he closed the door, like a woman thunderstruck.  Never yet had he looked at her as he looked when he spoke his last warning words.  With a heavy sigh she roused herself.  The vague dread with which his tone rather than his words had inspired her, strangely associated itself with the momentary curiosity which she had felt on noticing the annotated book that lay on his desk.

She snatched up the volume and looked at the open page.  It contained the closing paragraphs of an eloquent attack on Protestantism, from the Roman Catholic point of view.  With trembling hands she turned back to the title-page.  It presented this written inscription:  “To Lewis Romayne from his attached friend and servant, Arthur Penrose.”

“God help me!” she said to herself; “the priest has got between us already!”

CHAPTER II.

A CHRISTIAN JESUIT.

ON the next day Penrose arrived on his visit to Romayne.

The affectionate meeting between the two men tested Stella’s self-control as it had never been tried yet.  She submitted to the ordeal with the courage of a woman whose happiness depended on her outward graciousness of manner toward her husband’s friend.  Her reception of Penrose, viewed as an act of refined courtesy, was beyond reproach.  When she found her opportunity of leaving the room, Romayne gratefully opened the door for her.  “Thank you!” he whispered, with a look which was intended to reward her.