more
than six weeks, since I reported the little dinner given to Romayne at
my lodgings.

I am sorry for this, and more than sorry to hear that my venerated
brethren are beginning to despair of Romayne's conversion. Grant me a
delay of another week--and, if the prospects of the conversion have
not sensibly improved in that time, I will confess myself defeated.
Meanwhile, I bow to superior wisdom, without venturing to add a word in
my own defense.

II.

The week's grace granted to me has elapsed. I write with humility. At
the same time I have something to say for myself.

Yesterday, Mr. Lewis Romayne, of Vange Abbey, was received into the
community of the Holy Catholic Church. I inclose an accurate newspaper
report of the ceremonies which attended the conversion.

Be pleased to inform me, by telegraph, whether our Reverend Fathers wish
me to go on, or not.

BOOK THE FIFTH.

CHAPTER I.

MRS. EYRECO URT'S DISCOVERY.

THE leaves had fallen in the grounds at Ten Acres Lodge, and stormy
winds told drearily that winter had come.

An unchanging dullness pervaded the house. Romayne was constantly absent
in London, attending to his new religious duties under the guidance of
Father Benwell. The litter of books and manuscripts in the study was
seen no more. Hideously rigid order reigned in the unused room. Some of
Romayne's papers had been burned; others were imprisoned in drawers
and cupboards--the history of the Origin of Religions had taken its
melancholy place among the suspended literary enterprises of the time.
Mrs. Eyrecourt (after a superficially cordial reconciliation with
her son-in-law) visited her daughter every now and then, as an act of
maternal sacrifice. She yawned perpetually; she read innumerable novels;
she corresponded with her friends. In the long dull evenings, the
once-lively lady sometimes openly regretted that she had not been born
a man--with the three masculine resources of smoking, drinking, and
swearing placed at her disposal. It was a dreary existence, and happier
influences seemed but little likely to change it. Grateful as she was
to her mother, no persuasion would induce Stella to leave Ten Acres
and amuse herself in London. Mrs. Eyrecourt said, with melancholy and
metaphorical truth, "There is no elasticity left in my child."

On a dim gray morning, mother and daughter sat by the fireside, with
another long day before them.

"Where is that contemptible husband of yours?"