“You know that I will.”

“Put an end to your acquaintance with my husband.  Put an end to it,” she repeated vehemently, “from this day, at once and forever!  Can I trust you to do it?”

“Do you think I would have entered this house if I had known he was your husband?” He made that reply with a sudden change in him—­with a rising color and in firm tones of indignation.  In a moment more, his voice softened again, and his kind blue eyes rested on her sadly and devotedly.  “You may trust me to do more than you ask,” he resumed.  “You have made a mistake.”

“What mistake?”

“When Mr. Romayne introduced us, you met me like a stranger—­and you left me no choice but to do as you did.”

“I wish you to be a stranger.”

Her sharpest replies made no change in his manner.  He spoke as kindly and as patiently as ever.

“You forget that you and your mother were my guests at Beaupark, two years ago—­”

Stella understood what he meant—­and more.  In an instant she remembered that Father Benwell had been at Beaupark House.  Had he heard of the visit?  She clasped her hands in speechless terror.

Winterfield gently reassured her.  “You must not be frightened,” he said.  “It is in the last degree unlikely that Mr. Romayne will ever find out that you were at my house.  If he does—­and if you deny it—­I will do for you what I would do for no other human creature; I will deny it too.  You are safe from discovery.  Be happy—­and forget me.”

For the first time she showed signs of relenting—­she turned her head away, and sighed.  Although her mind was full of the serious necessity of warning him against Father Benwell, she had not even command enough over her own voice to ask how he had become acquainted with the priest.  His manly devotion, the perfect and pathetic sincerity of his respect, pleaded with her, in spite of herself.  For a moment she paused to recover her composure.  In that moment Romayne returned to them with the drawing in his hand.

“There!” he said.  “It’s nothing, this time, but some children gathering flowers on the outskirts of a wood.  What do you think of it?”

“What I thought of the larger work,” Winterfield answered.  “I could look at it by the hour together.”  He consulted his watch.  “But time is a hard master, and tells me that my visit must come to an end.  Thank you, most sincerely.”

He bowed to Stella.  Romayne thought his guest might have taken the English freedom of shaking hands.  “When will you come and look at the pictures again?” he asked.  “Will you dine with us, and see how they bear the lamplight?”

“I am sorry to say I must beg you to excuse me.  My plans are altered since we met yesterday.  I am obliged to leave London.”

Romayne was unwilling to part with him on these terms.  “You will let me know when you are next in town?” he said.

“Certainly!”