“You will make my excuses to Stella?” I said.

“You dear, good fellow, I will do more than make your excuses; I will sing your praises—­as the poet says.”  In her ungovernable exultation at having got rid of me, she burst into extravagant language.  “I feel like a mother to you,” she went on, as we shook hands at parting.  “I declare I could almost let you kiss me.”

There was not a single kissable place about Mrs. Eyrecourt, unpainted, undyed, or unpowdered.  I resisted temptation and opened the door.  There was still one last request that I could not help making.

“Will you let me know,” I said, “when you hear from Rome?”

“With the greatest pleasure,” Mrs. Eyrecourt answered, briskly.  “Good-by, you best of friends—­good-by.”

I write these lines while the servant is packing my portmanteau.  Traveler knows what that means.  My dog is glad, at any rate, to get away from London.  I think I shall hire a yacht, and try what a voyage round the world will do for me.  I wish to God I had never seen Stella!

Second Extract.

Beaupark, February 10.—­News at last from Mrs. Eyrecourt.

Romayne has not even read the letter that she addressed to him—­it has actually been returned to her by Father Benwell.  Mrs. Eyrecourt writes, naturally enough, in a state of fury.  Her one consolation, under this insulting treatment, is that her daughter knows nothing of the circumstances.  She warns me (quite needlessly) to keep the secret—­and sends me a copy of Father Benwell’s letter: 

“Dear Madam—­Mr. Romayne can read nothing that diverts his attention from his preparation for the priesthood, or that recalls past associations with errors which he has renounced forever.  When a letter reaches him, it is his wise custom to look at the signature first.  He has handed your letter to me, unread—­with a request that I will return it to you.  In his presence, I instantly sealed it up.  Neither he nor I know, or wish to know, on what subject you have addressed him.  We respectfully advise you not to write again.”

This is really too bad; but it has one advantage, so far as I am concerned.  It sets my own unworthy doubts and jealousies before me in a baser light than ever.  How honestly I defended Father Benwell! and how completely he has deceived me!  I wonder whether I shall live long enough to see the Jesuit caught in one of his own traps?

11th.—­I was disappointed at not hearing from Stella, yesterday.  This morning has made amends; it has brought me a letter from her.