Father Benwell (with his paternal smile in perfect order) resigned his chair to Mrs. Eyrecourt.  The traces of her illness still showed themselves in an intermittent trembling of her head and her hands.  She had entered the room, strongly suspecting that the process of conversion might be proceeding in the absence of Penrose, and determined to interrupt it.  Guided by his subtle intelligence, Father Benwell penetrated her motive as soon as she opened the door.  Mrs. Eyrecourt bowed graciously, and took the offered chair.  Father Benwell sweetened his paternal smile and offered to get a footstool.

“How glad I am,” he said, “to see you in your customary good spirits!  But wasn’t it just a little malicious to talk of interrupting a confession?  As if Mr. Romayne was one of Us!  Queen Elizabeth herself could hardly have said a sharper thing to a poor Catholic priest.”

“You clever creature!” said Mrs. Eyrecourt.  “How easily you see through a simple woman like me!  There—­I give you my hand to kiss and I will never try to deceive you again.  Do you know, Father Benwell, a most extraordinary wish has suddenly come to me.  Please don’t be offended.  I wish you were a Jew.”

“May I ask why?” Father Benwell inquired, with an apostolic suavity worthy of the best days of Rome.

Mrs. Eyrecourt explained herself with the modest self-distrust of a maiden of fifteen.  “I am really so ignorant, I hardly know how to put it.  But learned persons have told me that it is the peculiarity of the Jews—­may I say, the amiable peculiarity?—­never to make converts.  It would be so nice if you would take a leaf out of their book, when we have the happiness of receiving you here.  My lively imagination pictures you in a double character.  Father Benwell everywhere else; and—­say, the patriarch Abraham at Ten Acres Lodge.”

Father Benwell lifted his persuasive hands in courteous protest.  “My dear lady! pray make your mind easy.  Not one word on the subject of religion has passed between Mr. Romayne and myself—­”

“I beg your pardon,” Mrs. Eyrecourt interposed, “I am afraid I fail to follow you.  My silent son-in-law looks as if he longed to smother me, and my attention is naturally distracted.  You were about to say—?”

“I was about to say, dear Mrs. Eyrecourt, that you are alarming yourself without any reason.  Not one word, on any controversial subject, has passed—­”

Mrs. Eyrecourt cocked her head, with the artless vivacity of a bird.  “Ah, but it might, though!” she suggested, slyly.

Father Benwell once more remonstrated in dumb show, and Romayne lost his temper.

“Mrs. Eyrecourt!” he cried, sternly.

Mrs. Eyrecourt screamed, and lifted her hands to her ears.  “I am not deaf, dear Romayne, and I am not to be put down by any ill-timed exhibition of, what I may call, domestic ferocity.  Father Benwell sets you an example of Christian moderation.  Do, please, follow it.”