“I can quite understand that,” said Penrose.  “But you should remember that circumstances often influence a man in his choice of a vocation.  It has been so with me.  I am a member of a Roman Catholic family.  A Jesuit College was near our place of abode, and a near relative of mine—­since dead—­was one of the 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 England this afternoon,” she answered, “for Rome.”

“Why does he tell this to you, and not to me?” Romayne asked.