“No,” he said.  “I hate the inveterate striving of that priesthood after social influence and political power as cordially as the fiercest Protestant living.  But let us not forget that the Church of Rome has great merits to set against great faults.  Its system is administered with an admirable knowledge of the higher needs of human nature.  Take as one example what you have just seen.  The solemn tranquillity of that church, the poor people praying near me, the few words of prayer by which I silently united myself to my fellow-creatures, have calmed me and done me good.  In our country I should have found the church closed, out of service hours.”  He took my arm and abruptly changed the subject.  “How will you occupy yourself,” he asked, “if my aunt receives me to-morrow?”

I assured him that I should easily find ways and means of getting through the time.  The next morning a message came from Lady Berrick, to say that she would see her nephew after breakfast.  Left by myself, I walked toward the pier, and met with a man who asked me to hire his boat.  He had lines and bait, at my service.  Most unfortunately, as the event proved, I decided on occupying an hour or two by sea fishing.

The wind shifted while we were out, and before we could get back to the harbor, the tide had turned against us.  It was six o’clock when I arrived at the hotel.  A little open carriage was waiting at the door.  I found Romayne impatiently expecting me, and no signs of dinner on the table.  He informed me that he had accepted an invitation, in which I was included, and promised to explain everything in the carriage.

Our driver took the road that led toward the High Town.  I subordinated my curiosity to my sense of politeness, and asked for news of his aunt’s health.

“She is seriously ill, poor soul,” he said.  “I am sorry I spoke so petulantly and so unfairly when we met at the club.  The near prospect of death has developed qualities in her nature which I ought to have seen before this.  No matter how it may be delayed, I will patiently wait her time for the crossing to England.”

So long as he believed himself to be in the right, he was, as to his actions and opinions, one of the most obstinate men I ever met with.  But once let him be convinced that he was wrong, and he rushed into the other extreme—­became needlessly distrustful of himself, and needlessly eager in seizing his opportunity of making atonement.  In this latter mood he was capable (with the best intentions) of committing acts of the most childish imprudence.  With some misgivings, I asked how he had amused himself in my absence.

“I waited for you,” he said, “till I lost all patience, and went out for a walk.  First, I thought of going to the beach, but the smell of the harbor drove me back into the town; and there, oddly enough, I met with a man, a certain Captain Peterkin, who had been a friend of mine at college.”