Mrs. Eyrecourt’s little twinging eyes suddenly became still and steady.  It was only for a moment.  But that trifling change boded ill for the purpose which the priest had in view.  Even the wits of a fool can be quickened by contact with the world.  For many years Mrs. Eyrecourt had held her place in society, acting under an intensely selfish sense of her own interests, fortified by those cunning instincts which grow best in a barren intellect.  Perfectly unworthy of being trusted with secrets which only concerned other people, this frivolous creature could be the unassailable guardian of secrets which concerned herself.  The instant the priest referred indirectly to Winterfield, by speaking of Beaupark:  House, her instincts warned her, as if in words:—­Be careful for Stella’s sake!

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Eyrecourt.  “I know Beaupark House; but—­may I make a confession?” she added, with her sweetest smile.

Father Benwell caught her tone, with his customary tact.  “A confession at a ball is a novelty, even in my experience,” he answered with his sweetest smile.

“How good of you to encourage me!” proceeded Mrs. Eyrecourt.  “No, thank you, I don’t want to sit down.  My confession won’t take long—­and I really must give that poor pale daughter of mine a glass of wine.  A student of human nature like you—­they say all priests are students of human nature; accustomed of course to be consulted in difficulties, and to hear real confessions—­must know that we poor women are sadly subject to whims and caprices.  We can’t resist them as men do; and the dear good men generally make allowances for us.  Well, do you know that place of Mr. Winterfield’s is one of my caprices?  Oh, dear, I speak carelessly; I ought to have said the place represents one of my caprices.  In short.  Father Benwell, Beaupark House is perfectly odious to me, and I think Clovelly the most overrated place in the world.  I haven’t the least reason to give, but so it is.  Excessively foolish of me.  It’s like hysterics, I can’t help it; I’m sure you will forgive me.  There isn’t a place on the habitable globe that I am not ready to feel interested in, except detestable Devonshire.  I am so sorry you went there.  The next time you have a holiday, take my advice.  Try the Continent.”

“I should like it of all things,” said Father Benwell.  “Only I don’t speak French.  Allow me to get Miss Eyrecourt a glass of wine.”

He spoke with the most perfect temper and tranquillity.  Having paid his little attention to Stella, and having relieved her of the empty glass, he took his leave, with a parting request thoroughly characteristic of the man.

“Are you staying in town, Mrs. Eyrecourt?” he asked.

“Oh, of course, at the height of the season!”

“May I have the honor of calling on you—­and talking a little more about the Continent?”

If he had said it in so many words he could hardly have informed Mrs. Eyrecourt more plainly that he thoroughly understood her, and that he meant to try again.  Strong in the worldly training of half a lifetime, she at once informed him of her address, with the complimentary phrases proper to the occasion.  “Five o’clock tea on Wednesdays, Father Benwell.  Don’t forget!”