“Not yet.”  Father Benwell laid a strong emphasis on those two little words.  His fat fingers drummed restlessly on the table; his vigilant eyes rested expectantly on Penrose.  “Surely you understand me, Arthur?” he added, after an interval.

The color rose slowly in the worn face of Penrose.  “I am afraid to understand you,” he said.

“Why?”

“I am not sure that it is my better sense which understands.  I am afraid, Father, it may be my vanity and presumption.”

Father Benwell leaned back luxuriously in his chair.  “I like that modesty,” he said, with a relishing smack of his lips as if modesty was as good as a meal to him.  “There is power of the right sort, Arthur, hidden under the diffidence that does you honor.  I am more than ever satisfied that I have been right in reporting you as worthy of this most serious trust.  I believe the conversion of the owner of Vange Abbey is—­in your hands—­no more than a matter of time.”

“May I ask what his name is?”

“Certainly.  His name is Lewis Romayne.”

“When do you introduce me to him?”

“Impossible to say.  I have not yet been introduced myself.”

“You don’t know Mr. Romayne?”

“I have never even seen him.”

These discouraging replies were made with the perfect composure of a man who saw his way clearly before him.  Sinking from one depth of perplexity to another, Penrose ventured on putting one last question.  “How am I to approach Mr. Romayne?” he asked.

“I can only answer that, Arthur, by admitting you still further into my confidence.  It is disagreeable to me,” said the reverend gentleman, with the most becoming humility, “to speak of myself.  But it must be done.  Shall we have a little coffee to help us through the coming extract from Father Benwell’s autobiography?  Don’t look so serious, my son!  When the occasion justifies it, let us take life lightly.”  He rang the bell and ordered the coffee, as if he was the master of the house.  The servant treated him with the most scrupulous respect.  He hummed a little tune, and talked at intervals of the weather, while they were waiting.  “Plenty of sugar, Arthur?” he inquired, when the coffee was brought in.  “No!  Even in trifles, I should have been glad to feel that there was perfect sympathy between us.  I like plenty of sugar myself.”

Having sweetened his coffee with the closest attention to the process, he was at liberty to enlighten his young friend.  He did it so easily and so cheerfully that a far less patient man than Penrose would have listened to him with interest.

CHAPTER III.

THE INTRODUCTION TO ROMAYNE.