I am sometimes conscious of a
sense of discouragement."

"Curious," said Father Benwell. "I am only conscious, myself, of a sense
of impatience. What right has an obstacle to get in _my_ way?--that
is how I look at it. For example, the first thing I heard, when I came
here, was that Romayne had left England. My introduction to him
was indefinitely delayed; I had to look to Lord Loring for all the
information I wanted relating to the man and his habits. There was
another obstacle! Not living in the house, I was obliged to find an
excuse for being constantly on the spot, ready to take advantage of his
lordship's leisure moments for conversation. I sat down in this room,
and I said to myself, 'Before I get up again, I mean to brush these
impertinent obstacles out of my way!' The state of the books suggested
the idea of which I was in search. Before I left the house, I was
charged with the rearrangement of the library. From that moment I came
and went as often as I liked. Whenever Lord Loring was disposed for a
little talk, there I was, to lead the talk in the right direction. And
what is the result? On the first occasion when Romayne presents himself
I can place you in a position to become his daily companion. All due,
Arthur, in the first instance, to my impatience of obstacles. Amusing,
isn't it?"

Penrose was perhaps deficient in the sense of humor. Instead of being
amused, he appeared to be anxious for more information.

"In what capacity am I to be Mr. Romayne's companion?" he asked.

Father Benwell poured himself out another cup of coffee.

"Suppose I tell you first," he suggested, "how circumstances present
Romayne to us as a promising subject for conversion. He is young; still
a single man; not compromised by any illicit connection; romantic,
sensitive, highly cultivated. No near relations are alive to influence
him; and, to my certain knowledge, his estate is not entailed. He has
devoted himself for years past to books, and is collecting materials
for a work of immense research, on the Origin of Religions. Some great
sorrow or remorse--Lord Loring did not mention what it was--has told
seriously on his nervous system, already injured by night study. Add to
this, that he is now within our reach. He has lately returned to London,
and is living quite alone at a private hotel. For some reason which I am
not acquainted with, he keeps away from Vange Abbey--the very place, as
I should have thought, for a studious ma