Left entirely by themselves, at the other end of the room, Romayne and Stella justified Lady Loring’s belief in the result of reducing her husband to a state of repose.  Stella ventured to speak first, in a discreet undertone.

“Do you pass most of your evenings alone, Mr. Romayne?”

“Not quite alone.  I have the company of my books.”

“Are your books the companions that you like best?”

“I have been true to those companions, Miss Eyrecourt, for many years.  If the doctors are to be believed, my books have not treated me very well in return.  They have broken down my health, and have made me, I am afraid, a very unsocial man.”  He seemed about to say more, and suddenly checked the impulse.  “Why am I talking of myself?” he resumed with a smile.  “I never do it at other times.  Is this another result of your influence over me?”

He put the question with an assumed gayety.  Stella made no effort, on her side, to answer him in the same tone.

“I almost wish I really had some influence over you,” she said, gravely and sadly.

“Why?”

“I should try to induce you to shut up your books, and choose some living companion who might restore you to your happier self.”

“It is already done,” said Romayne; “I have a new companion in Mr. Penrose.”

“Penrose?” she repeated.  “He is the friend—­is he not—­of the priest here, whom they call Father Benwell?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t like Father Benwell.”

“Is that a reason for disliking Mr. Penrose?”

“Yes,” she said, boldly, “because he is Father Benwell’s friend.”

“Indeed, you are mistaken, Miss Eyrecourt.  Mr. Penrose only entered yesterday on his duties as my secretary, and I have already had reason to think highly of him.  Many men, after that experience of me,” he added, speaking more to himself than to her, “might have asked me to find another secretary.”

Stella heard those last words, and looked at him in astonishment.  “Were you angry with Mr. Penrose?” she asked innocently.  “Is it possible that you could speak harshly to any person in your employment?”

Romayne smiled.  “It was not what I said,” he answered.  “I am subject to attacks—­to sudden attacks of illness.  I am sorry I alarmed Mr. Penrose by letting him see me under those circumstances.”

She looked at him; hesitated; and looked away again.  “Would you be angry with me if I confessed something?” she said timidly.

“It is impossible I can be angry with you!”

“Mr. Romayne, I think I have seen what your secretary saw.  I know how you suffer, and how patiently you bear it.”

“You!” he exclaimed.

“I saw you with your friend, when you came on board the steamboat at Boulogne.  Oh, no, you never noticed me!  You never knew how I pitied you.  And afterward, when you moved away by yourself, and stood by the place in which the engines work—­you are sure you won’t think the worse of me, if I tell it?”