Romayne opened the door.

The double influence of the conversion, and of the life in The Retreat, had already changed him.  His customary keenness and excitability of look had subsided, and had left nothing in their place but an expression of suave and meditative repose.  All his troubles were now in the hands of his priest.  There was a passive regularity in his bodily movements and a beatific serenity in his smile.

“My dear friend,” said Father Benwell, cordially shaking hands, “you were good enough to be guided by my advice in entering this house.  Be guided by me again, when I say that you have been here long enough.  You can return, after an interval, if you wish it.  But I have something to say to you first—­and I beg to offer the hospitality of my lodgings.”

The time had been when Romayne would have asked for some explanation of this abrupt notice of removal.  Now, he passively accepted the advice of his spiritual director.  Father Benwell made the necessary communication to the authorities, and Romayne took leave of his friends in The Retreat.  The great Jesuit and the great landowner left the place, with becoming humility, in a cab.

“I hope I have not disappointed you?” said Father Benwell.

“I am only anxious,” Romayne answered, “to hear what you have to say.”

CHAPTER III.

THE HARVEST IS REAPED.

ON their way through the streets, Father Benwell talked as persistently of the news of the day as if he had nothing else in his thoughts.  To keep his companion’s mind in a state of suspense was, in certain emergencies, to exert a useful preparatory influence over a man of Romayne’s character.  Even when they reached his lodgings, the priest still hesitated to approach the object that he had in view.  He made considerate inquiries, in the character of a hospitable man.

“They breakfast early at The Retreat,” he said.  “What may I offer you?”

“I want nothing, thank you,” Romayne answered, with an effort to control his habitual impatience of needless delay.

“Pardon me—­we have a long interview before us, I fear.  Our bodily necessities, Romayne (excuse me if I take the friendly liberty of suppressing the formal ’Mr.’)—­our bodily necessities are not to be trifled with.  A bottle of my famous claret, and a few biscuits, will not hurt either of us.”  He rang the bell, and gave the necessary directions “Another damp day!” he went on cheerfully.  “I hope you don’t pay the rheumatic penalties of a winter residence in England?  Ah, this glorious country would be too perfect if it possessed the delicious climate of Rome!”

The wine and biscuits were brought in.  Father Benwell filled the glasses and bowed cordially to his guest.

“Nothing of this sort at The Retreat!” he said gayly.  “Excellent water, I am told—­which is a luxury in its way, especially in London.  Well, my dear Romayne, I must begin by making my apologies.  You no doubt thought me a little abrupt in running away with you from your retirement at a moment’s notice?”