She only bowed to him, and took refuge in her own room.

Even in trifles, a woman’s nature is degraded by the falsities of language and manner which the artificial condition of modern society exacts from her.  When she yields herself to more serious deceptions, intended to protect her dearest domestic interests, the mischief is increased in proportion.  Deceit, which is the natural weapon of defense used by the weak creature against the strong, then ceases to be confined within the limits assigned by the sense of self-respect and by the restraints of education.  A woman in this position will descend, self-blinded, to acts of meanness which would be revolting to her if they were related of another person.

Stella had already begun the process of self-degradation by writing secretly to Winterfield.  It was only to warn him of the danger of trusting Father Benwell—­but it was a letter, claiming him as her accomplice in an act of deception.  That morning she had received Penrose with the outward cordialities of welcome which are offered to an old and dear friend.  And now, in the safe solitude of her room, she had fallen to a lower depth still.  She was deliberately considering the safest means of acquainting herself with the confidential conversation which Romayne and Penrose would certainly hold when she left them together.  “He will try to set my husband against me; and I have a right to know what means he uses, in my own defense.”  With that thought she reconciled herself to an action which she would have despised if she had heard of it as the action of another woman.

It was a beautiful autumn day, brightened by clear sunshine, enlivened by crisp air.  Stella put on her hat and went out for a stroll in the grounds.

While she was within view from the windows of the servants’ offices she walked away from the house.  Turning the corner of a shrubbery, she entered a winding path, on the other side, which led back to the lawn under Romayne’s study window.  Garden chairs were placed here and there.  She took one of them, and seated herself—­after a last moment of honorable hesitation—­where she could hear the men’s voices through the open window above her.

Penrose was speaking at the time.

“Yes.  Father Benwell has granted me a holiday,” he said; “but I don’t come here to be an idle man.  You must allow me to employ my term of leave in the pleasantest of all ways.  I mean to be your secretary again.”

Romayne sighed.  “Ah, if you knew how I have missed you!”

(Stella waited, in breathless expectation, for what Penrose would say to this.  Would he speak of her? No.  There was a natural tact and delicacy in him which waited for the husband to introduce the subject.)

Penrose only said, “How is the great work getting on?”

The answer was sternly spoken in one word—­“Badly!”

“I am surprised to hear that, Romayne.”