If I had followed my inclinations, I should have refused.  I feel no sort of interest in Romayne—­I might even say I feel a downright antipathy toward him.  But I have no wish to appear insensible to the banker’s kindness, and my reception at St. Germain depends greatly on the attention I show to Mrs. Eyrecourt’s request.  So it was arranged that I should hear the great preacher—­with a mental reservation on my part, which contemplated my departure from the church before the end of his sermon.

But, before I see him, I feel assured of one thing—­especially after what the banker has told me.  Stella’s view of his character is the right one.  The man who has deserted her has no heart to be touched by wife or child.  They are separated forever.

March 3.—­I have just seen the landlord of the hotel; he can help me to answer one of Mrs. Eyrecourt’s questions.  A nephew of his holds some employment at the Jesuit headquarters here, adjoining their famous church Il Gesu.  I have requested the young man to ascertain if Father Benwell is still in Rome—­without mentioning me.  It would be no small trial to my self-control if we met in the street.

March 4.—­Good news this time for Mrs. Eyrecourt, as far as it goes.  Father Benwell has long since left Rome, and has returned to his regular duties in England.  If he exercises any further influence over Romayne, it must be done by letter.

March 5.—­I have returned from Romayne’s sermon.  This double renegade—­has he not deserted his religion and his wife?—­has failed to convince my reason.  But he has so completely upset my nerves that I ordered a bottle of champagne (to the great amusement of my friend the banker) the moment we got back to the hotel.

We drove through the scantily lighted streets of Rome to a small church in the neighborhood of the Piazza Navona.  To a more imaginative man than myself, the scene when we entered the building would have been too impressive to be described in words—­though it might perhaps have been painted.  The one light in the place glimmered mysteriously from a great wax candle, burning in front of a drapery of black cloth, and illuminating dimly a sculptured representation, in white marble, of the crucified Christ, wrought to the size of life.  In front of this ghastly emblem a platform projected, also covered with black cloth.  We could penetrate no further than to the space just inside the door of the church.  Everywhere else the building was filled with standing, sitting and kneeling figures, shadowy and mysterious, fading away in far corners into impenetrable gloom.  The only sounds were the low, wailing notes of the organ, accompanied at intervals by the muffled thump of fanatic worshipers penitentially beating their breasts.  On a sudden the organ ceased; the self-inflicted blows of the penitents were heard no more.  In the breathless silence that followed, a man robed in black mounted the black platform, and faced the congregation.