ling expressed in words.

In the meantime, Mrs. Eyrecourt was satisfied. She dashed at the next
subject as fluent and as confident as ever.

"Now, Winterfield, it is surely plain to your mind that you must not see
Stella again--except when I am present to tie the tongue of scandal. My
daughter's conduct must not allow her husband--if you only knew how
I detest that man!--must not, I say, allow her husband the slightest
excuse for keeping away from her. If we give that odious old Jesuit the
chance, he will make a priest of Romayne before we know where we are.
The audacity of these Papists is really beyond belief. You remember how
they made Bishops and Archbishops here, in flat defiance of our
laws? Father Benwell follows that example, and sets our other laws at
defiance--I mean our marriage laws. I am so indignant I can't express
myself as clearly as usual. Did Stella tell you that he actually shook
Romayne's belief in his own marriage? Ah, I understand--she kept that to
herself, poor dear, and with good reason, too."

I thought of the turned-down page in the letter. Mrs. Eyrecourt
readily revealed what her daughter's delicacy had forbidden me to
read--including the monstrous assumption which connected my marriage
before the registrar with her son-in-law's scruples.

"Yes," she proceeded, "these Catholics are all alike. My daughter--I
don't mean my sweet Stella; I mean the unnatural creature in the
nunnery--sets herself above her own mother. Did I ever tell you she was
impudent enough to say she would pray for me? Father Benwell and the
Papal Aggression over again! Now tell me, Winterfield, don't you think,
taking the circumstances into consideration--that you will act like a
thoroughly sensible man if you go back to Devonshire while we are in
our present situation? What with foot-warmers in the carriage, and
newspapers and magazines to amuse you, it isn't such a very long
journey. And then Beaupark--dear Beaupark--is such a remarkably
comfortable house in the winter; and you, you enviable creature, are
such a popular man in the neighborhood. Oh, go back! go back!"

I got up and took my hat. She patted me on the shoulder. I could have
throttled her at that moment. And yet she was right.

"You will make my excuses to Stella?" I said.

"You dear, good fellow, I will do more than make your excuses; I will
sing your praises--as the poet says." In her ungovernable exultation at
having got rid of me, she burst into extr