“How do I know that?” he retorted.  “In two days the weather may be stormy.  In two days she may be too ill to be moved.  Unfortunately, I am her heir; and I am told I must submit to any whim that seizes her.  I’m rich enough already; I don’t want her money.  Besides, I dislike all traveling—­and especially traveling alone.  You are an idle man.  If you were a good friend, you would offer to go with me.”  He added, with the delicacy which was one of the redeeming points in his wayward character.  “Of course as my guest.”

I had known him long enough not to take offense at his reminding me, in this considerate way, that I was a poor man.  The proposed change of scene tempted me.  What did I care for the Channel passage?  Besides, there was the irresistible attraction of getting away from home.  The end of it was that I accepted Romayne’s invitation.

II.

Shortly after noon, on the next day, we were established at Boulogne—­near Lady Berrick, but not at her hotel.  “If we live in the same house,” Romayne reminded me, “we shall be bored by the companion and the doctor.  Meetings on the stairs, you know, and exchanging bows and small talk.”  He hated those trivial conventionalities of society, in which, other people delight.  When somebody once asked him in what company he felt most at ease? he made a shocking answer—­he said, “In the company of dogs.”

I waited for him on the pier while he went to see her ladyship.  He joined me again with his bitterest smile.  “What did I tell you?  She is not well enough to see me to-day.  The doctor looks grave, and the companion puts her handkerchief to her eyes.  We may be kept in this place for weeks to come.”

The afternoon proved to be rainy.  Our early dinner was a bad one.  This last circumstance tried his temper sorely.  He was no gourmand; the question of cookery was (with him) purely a matter of digestion.  Those late hours of study, and that abuse of tea to which I have already alluded, had sadly injured his stomach.  The doctors warned him of serious consequences to his nervous system, unless he altered his habits.  He had little faith in medical science, and he greatly overrated the restorative capacity of his constitution.  So far as I know, he had always neglected the doctors’ advice.

The weather cleared toward evening, and we went out for a walk.  We passed a church—­a Roman Catholic church, of course—­the doors of which were still open.  Some poor women were kneeling at their prayers in the dim light.  “Wait a minute,” said Romayne.  “I am in a vile temper.  Let me try to put myself into a better frame of mind.”

I followed him into the church.  He knelt down in a dark corner by himself.  I confess I was surprised.  He had been baptized in the Church of England; but, so far as outward practice was concerned, he belonged to no religious community.  I had often heard him speak with sincere reverence and admiration of the spirit of Christianity—­but he never, to my knowledge, attended any place of public worship.  When we met again outside the church, I asked if he had been converted to the Roman Catholic faith.