accepted her
invitation for the next day.

January 30.--I have just returned from my visit.

My thoughts are in a state of indescribable conflict and confusion--and
her mother is the cause of it. I wish I had not gone to the house. Am I
a bad man, I wonder? and have I only found it out now?

Mrs. Eyrecourt was alone in the drawing-room when I went in. Judging by
the easy manner in which she got up to receive me, the misfortune that
has befallen her daughter seemed to have produced no sobering change in
this frivolous woman.

"My dear Winterfield," she began, "I have behaved infamously. I won't
say that appearances were against you at Brussels--I will only say I
ought not to have trusted to appearances. You are the injured person;
please forgive me. Shall we go on with the subject? or shall we shake
hands, and say no more about it?"

I shook hands, of course. Mrs. Eyrecourt perceived that I was looking
for Stella.

"Sit down," she said; "and be good enough to put up with no more
attractive society than mine. Unless I set things straight, my good
friend, you and my daughter--oh, with the best intentions!--will
drift into a false position. You won't see Stella to-day. Quite
impossible--and I will tell you why. I am the worldly old mother; I
don't mind what I say. My innocent daughter would die before she would
confess what I am going to tell you. Can I offer you anything? Have you
had lunch?"

I begged her to continue. She perplexed--I am not sure that she did not
even alarm me.

"Very well," she proceeded. "You may be surprised to hear it--but
I don't mean to allow things to go on in this way. My contemptible
son-in-law shall return to his wife."

This startled me, and I suppose I showed it.

"Wait a little," said Mrs. Eyrecourt. "There is nothing to be alarmed
about. Romayne is a weak fool; and Father Benwell's greedy hands are (of
course) in both his pockets. But he has, unless I am entirely mistaken,
some small sense of shame, and some little human feeling still
left. After the manner in which he has behaved, these are the merest
possibilities, you will say. Very likely. I have boldly appealed to
those possibilities nevertheless. He has already gone away to Rome; and
I need hardly add--Father Benwell would take good care of that--he
has left us no address. It doesn't in the least matter. One of the
advantages of being so much in society as I am is that I have nice
acquaintances everywhere, always ready t