She returned to the study.

The relief of tears had not come to Romayne.  He had dropped into a chair when Penrose left him.  In stony silence he sat there, his head down, his eyes dry and staring.  The miserable days of their estrangement were forgotten by his wife in the moment when she looked at him.  She knelt by his side and lifted his head a little and laid it on her bosom.  Her heart was full—­she let the caress plead for her silently.  He felt it; his cold fingers pressed her hand thankfully; but he said nothing.  After a long interval, the first outward expression of sorrow that fell from his lips showed that he was still thinking of Penrose.

“Every blessing falls away from me,” he said.  “I have lost my best friend.”

Years afterward Stella remembered those words, and the tone in which he had spoken them.

CHAPTER VII.

THE IMPULSIVE SEX.

AFTER a lapse of a few days, Father Benwell was again a visitor at Ten Acres Lodge—­by Romayne’s invitation.  The priest occupied the very chair, by the study fireside, in which Penrose had been accustomed to sit.

“It is really kind of you to come to me,” said Romayne, “so soon after receiving my acknowledgment of your letter.  I can’t tell you how I was touched by the manner in which you wrote of Penrose.  To my shame I confess it, I had no idea that you were so warmly attached to him.”

“I hardly knew it myself, Mr. Romayne, until our dear Arthur was taken away from us.”

“If you used your influence, Father Benwell, is there no hope that you might yet persuade him—?”

“To withdraw from the Mission?  Oh, Mr. Romayne, don’t you know Arthur’s character better than that?  Even his gentle temper has its resolute side.  The zeal of the first martyrs to Christianity is the zeal that burns in that noble nature.  The Mission has been the dream of his life—­it is endeared to him by the very dangers which we dread.  Persuade Arthur to desert the dear and devoted colleagues who have opened their arms to him?  I might as soon persuade that statue in the garden to desert its pedestal, and join us in this room.  Shall we change the sad subject?  Have you received the book which I sent you with my letter?”

Romayne took up the book from his desk.  Before he could speak of it some one called out briskly, on the other side of the door:  “May I come in?”—­and came in, without waiting to be asked.  Mrs. Eyrecourt, painted and robed for the morning—­wafting perfumes as she moved—­appeared in the study.  She looked at the priest, and lifted her many-ringed hands with a gesture of coquettish terror.

“Oh, dear me!  I had no idea you were here, Father Benwell.  I ask ten thousand pardons.  Dear and admirable Romayne, you don’t look as if you were pleased to see me.  Good gracious!  I am not interrupting a confession, am I?”