“Why, indeed, my love!  You had better leave the room with me.  Our amiable Romayne’s present idea is to relieve himself of our society by retiring to a monastery.  Don’t you see Father Benwell?”

Stella coldly returned the priest’s bow—­and looked at Romayne.  She felt a vague forewarning of what had happened.  Mrs. Eyrecourt proceeded to enlighten her, as an appropriate expression of gratitude.  “We are indeed indebted to Father Benwell, my dear.  He has been most considerate and kind—­”

Romayne interrupted her without ceremony.  “Favor me,” he said, addressing his wife, “by inducing Mrs. Eyrecourt to continue her narrative in some other room.”

Stella was hardly conscious of what her mother or her husband had said.  She felt that the priest’s eyes were on her.  Under any other circumstances, Father Benwell’s good breeding and knowledge of the world would have impelled him to take his departure.  As things were, he knew perfectly well that the more seriously Romayne was annoyed, in his presence, the better his own private interests would be served.  Accordingly, he stood apart, silently observant of Stella.  In spite of Winterfield’s reassuring reply to her letter, Stella instinctively suspected and dreaded the Jesuit.  Under the spell of those watchful eyes she trembled inwardly; her customary tact deserted her; she made an indirect apology to the man whom she hated and feared.

“Whatever my mother may have said to you, Father Benwell, has been without my knowledge.”

Romayne attempted to speak, but Father Benwell was too quick for him.

“Dear Mrs. Romayne, nothing has been said which needs any disclaimer on your part.”

“I should think not!” Mrs. Eyrecourt added.  “Really, Stella, I don’t understand you.  Why may I not say to Father Benwell what you said to Mr. Penrose?  You trusted Mr. Penrose as your friend.  I can tell you this—­I am quite sure you may trust Father Benwell.”

Once more Romayne attempted to speak.  And, once more, Father Benwell was beforehand with him.

“May I hope,” said the priest, with a finely ironical smile, “that Mrs. Romayne agrees with her excellent mother?”

With all her fear of him, the exasperating influence of his tone and his look was more than Stella could endure.  Before she could restrain them, the rash words flew out of her lips.

“I am not sufficiently well acquainted with you, Father Benwell, to express an opinion.”

With that answer, she took her mother’s arm and left the room.

The moment they were alone, Romayne turned to the priest, trembling with anger.  Father Benwell, smiling indulgently at the lady’s little outbreak, took him by the hand, with peace-making intentions, “Now don’t—­pray don’t excite yourself!”

Romayne was not to be pacified in that way.  His anger was trebly intensified by the long-continued strain on his nerves of the effort to control himself.