My visit to the Lodge was duly paid this afternoon.

I asked first, of course, for the lady of the house, and hearing she was in the grounds, joined her there.  She looked ill and anxious, and she received me with rigid politeness.  Fortunately, Mrs. Eyrecourt (now convalescent) was staying at Ten Acres, and was then taking the air in her chair on wheels.  The good lady’s nimble and discursive tongue offered me an opportunity of referring, in the most innocent manner possible, to Winterfield’s favorable opinion of Romayne’s pictures.  I need hardly say that I looked at Romayne’s wife when I mentioned the name.  She turned pale—­probably fearing that I had some knowledge of her letter warning Winterfield not to trust me.  If she had already been informed that he was not to be blamed, but to be pitied, in the matter of the marriage at Brussels, she would have turned red.  Such, at least, is my experience, drawn from recollections of other days. *

The ladies having served my purpose, I ventured into the house, to pay my respects to Romayne.

He was in the study, and his excellent friend and secretary was with him.  After the first greetings Penrose left us.  His manner told me plainly that there was something wrong.  I asked no questions—­waiting on the chance that Romayne might enlighten me.

“I hope you are in better spirits, now that you have your old companion with you,” I said.

“I am very glad to have Penrose with me,” he answered.  And then he frowned and looked out of the window at the two ladies in the grounds.

It occurred to me that Mrs. Eyrecourt might be occupying the customary false position of a mother-in-law.  I was mistaken.  He was not thinking of his wife’s mother—­he was thinking of his wife.

“I suppose you know that Penrose had an idea of converting me?” he said, suddenly.

I was perfectly candid with him—­I said I knew it, and approved of it.  “May I hope that Arthur has succeeded in convincing you?” I ventured to add.

“He might have succeeded, Father Benwell, if he had chosen to go on.”

This reply, as you may easily imagine, took me by surprise.

“Are you really so obdurate that Arthur despairs of your conversion?” I asked.

“Nothing of the sort!  I have thought and thought of it—­and I can tell you I was more than ready to meet him half way.”

“Then where is the obstacle?” I exclaimed.

He pointed thro ugh the window to his wife.  “There is the obstacle,” he said, in a tone of ironical resignation.

Knowing Arthur’s character as I knew it, I at last understood what had happened.  For a moment I felt really angry.  Under these circumstances, the wise course was to say nothing, until I could be sure of speaking with exemplary moderation.  It doesn’t do for a man in my position to show anger.

Romayne went on.