he resident priests." He paused, and added in a lower
tone: "When I was little more than a lad I suffered a disappointment,
which altered my character for life. I took refuge in the College, and
I have found patience and peace of mind since that time. Oh, my friend,
you might have been a more contented man--" He stopped again. His
interest in the husband had all but deceived him into forgetting his
promise to the wife.

Romayne held out his hand. "I hope I have not thoughtlessly hurt you?"
he said.

Penrose took the offered hand, and pressed it fervently. He tried to
speak--and suddenly shuddered, like a man in pain. "I am not very well
this morning," he stammered; "a turn in the garden will do me good."

Romayne's doubts were confirmed by the manner in which Penrose left
him. Something had unquestionably happened, which his friend shrank from
communicating to him. He sat down again at his desk and tried to read.
The time passed--and he was still left alone. When the door was at last
opened it was only Stella who entered the room.

"Have you seen Penrose?" he asked.

The estrangement between them had been steadily widening of late.
Romayne had expressed his resentment at his wife's interference between
Penrose and himself by that air of contemptuous endurance which is
the hardest penalty that a man can inflict on the woman who loves him.
Stella had submitted with a proud and silent resignation--the most
unfortunate form of protest that she could have adopted toward a man
of Romayne's temper. When she now appeared, however, in her husband's
study, there was a change in her expression which he instantly noticed.
She looked at him with eyes softened by sorrow. Before she could answer
his first question, he hurriedly added another. "Is Penrose really ill?"

"No, Lewis. He is distressed."

"About what?"

"About you, and about himself."

"Is he going to leave us?"

"Yes."

"But he will come back again?"

Stella took a chair by her husband's side. "I am truly sorry for you,
Lewis," she said. "It is even a sad parting for Me. If you will let me
say it, I have a sincere regard for dear Mr. Penrose."

Under other circumstances, this confession of feeling for the man who
had sacrificed his dearest aspiration to the one consideration of her
happiness, might have provoked a sharp reply. But by this time Romayne
had really become alarmed. "You speak as if Arthur was going to leave
England," he said.

"He leaves Eng