Father Benwell rose politely, to assist in picking up the prostrate correspondence.  But Traveler was beforehand with him.  Warning the priest, with a low growl, not to interfere with another person’s business, the dog picked up the letters in his mouth, and carried them by installments to his master’s feet.  Even then, the exasperating Winterfield went no further than patting Traveler.  Father Benwell’s endurance reached its limits.  “Pray don’t stand on ceremony with me,” he said.  “I will look at the newspaper while you read your letters.”

Winterfield carelessly gathered the letters together, tossed them on the dining table at his side, and took the uppermost one of the little heap.

Fate was certainly against the priest on that evening.  The first letter that Winterfield opened led him off to another subject of conversation before he had read it to the end.  Father Benwell’s hand, already in his coat pocket, appeared again—­empty.

“Here’s a proposal to me to go into Parliament,” said the Squire.  “What do you think of representative institutions, Father Benwell?  To my mind, representative institutions are on their last legs.  Honorable Members vote away more of our money every year.  They have no alternative between suspending liberty of speech, or sitting helpless while half a dozen impudent idiots stop the progress of legislation from motives of the meanest kind.  And they are not even sensitive enough to the national honor to pass a social law among themselves which makes it as disgraceful in a gentleman to buy a seat by bribery as to cheat at cards.  I declare I think the card-sharper the least degraded person of the two. He doesn’t encourage his inferiors to be false to a public trust.  In short, my dear sir, everything wears out in this world—­and why should the House of Commons be an exception to the rule?”

He picked up the next letter from the heap.  As he looked at the address, his face changed.  The smile left his lips, the gayety died out of his eyes.  Traveler, entreating for more notice with impatient forepaws applied to his master’s knees, saw the alteration, and dropped into a respectfully recumbent position.  Father Benwell glanced sidelong off the columns of the newspaper, and waited for events with all the discretion, and none of the good faith, of the dog.

“Forwarded from Beaupark,” Winterfield said to himself.  He opened the letter—­read it carefully to the end—­thought over it—­and read it again.

“Father Benwell!” he said suddenly.

The priest put down the newspaper.  For a few moments more nothing was audible but the steady tick-tick of the clock.

“We have not been very long acquainted,” Winterfield resumed.  “But our association has been a pleasant one, and I think I owe to you the duty of a friend.  I don’t belong to your Church; bu t I hope you will believe me when I say that ignorant prejudice against the Catholic priesthood is not one of my prejudices.”