At five o’clock, on the day which followed his introduction to Romayne, Father Benwell sat drinking his coffee in the housekeeper’s room—­to all appearance as much at his ease as if he had known Miss Notman from the remote days of her childhood.  A new contribution to the housekeeper’s little library of devotional works lay on the table; and bore silent witness to the means by which he had made those first advances which had won him his present position.  Miss Notman’s sense of dignity was doubly flattered.  She had a priest for her guest, and a new book with the reverend gentleman’s autograph inscribed on the title-page.

“Is your coffee to your liking, Father?”

“A little more sugar, if you please.”

Miss Notman was proud of her hand, viewed as one of the meritorious details of her figure.  She took up the sugar-tongs with suavity and grace; she dropped the sugar into the cup with a youthful pleasure in ministering to the minor desires of her illustrious guest.  “It is so good of you, Father, to honor me in this way,” she said—­with the appearance of sixteen super-induced upon the reality of sixty.

Father Benwell was an adept at moral disguises of all kinds.  On this occasion he wore the disguise of pastoral simplicity.  “I am an idle old man at this hour of the afternoon,” he said.  “I hope I am not keeping you from any household duties?”

“I generally enjoy my duties,” Miss Notman answered.  “To-day, they have not been so agreeable as usual; it is a relief to me to have done with them.  Even my humble position has its trials.”

Persons acquainted with Miss Notman’s character, hearing these last words, would have at once changed the subject.  When she spoke of “her humble position,” she invariably referred to some offense offered to her dignity, and she was invariably ready to state the grievance at full length.  Ignorant of this peculiarity, Father Benwell committed a fatal error.  He inquired, with courteous interest, what the housekeeper’s “trials” might be.

“Oh, sir, they are beneath your notice!” said Miss Notman modestly.  “At the same time, I should feel it an honor to have the benefit of your opinion—­I should so like to know that you do not altogether disapprove of my conduct, under some provocation.  You see, Father, the whole responsibility of ordering the dinners falls on me.  And, when there is company, as there is this evening, the responsibility is particularly trying to a timid person like myself.”

“A large dinner party, Miss Notman?”

“Oh, dear, no!  Quite the reverse.  Only one gentleman—­Mr. Romayne.”

Father Benwell set down his cup of coffee, half way to his lips.  He at once drew the correct conclusion that the invitation to Romayne must have been given and accepted after he had left the picture gallery.  That the object was to bring Romayne and Stella together, under circumstances which would rapidly improve their acquaintance, was as plain to him as if he had heard it confessed in so many words.  If he had only remained in the gallery, he might have become acquainted with the form of persuasion used to induce a man so unsocial as Romayne to accept an invitation.  “I have myself to blame,” he thought bitterly, “for being left in the dark.”