If your mother would be disappointed—”
“She would be angry,” Stella interposed.
“Very well—lay all the blame on me.
Besides, there might be two other persons present, whom I am sure Mrs. Eyrecourt is always glad to meet.
You don’t object to Lord and Lady Loring?”
“Object?
They are my dearest friends, as well as yours!”
“Any one else, Stella?”
“Any one, Lewis, whom you like.
“Then I say—no one else.
My own love, when may it be?
My lawyers can get the settlements ready in a fortnight, or less.
Will you say in a fortnight?”
His arm was round her waist; his lips were touching her lovely neck.
She was not a woman to take refuge in the commonplace coquetries of the sex.
“Yes,” she said, softly, “if you wish it.”
She rose and withdrew herself from him.
“For my sake, we must not be here together any longer, Lewis.”
As she spoke, the music in the ballroom ceased.
Stella ran out of the conservatory.
The first person she encountered, on returning to the reception-room, was Father Benwell.
CHAPTER III. THE END OF THE BALL.
THE priest’s long journey did not appear to have fatigued him.
He was as cheerful and as polite as ever—and so paternally attentive to Stella that it was quite impossible for her to pass him with a formal bow.
“I have come all the way from Devonshire,” he said. “The train has been behind time as usual, and I am one of the late arrivals in consequence.
I miss some familiar faces at this delightful party. Mr. Romayne, for instance.
Perhaps he is not one of the guests?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Has he gone away?”
“Not that I know of.”
The tone of her replies warned Father Benwell to let Romayne be. He tried another name.
“And Arthur Penrose?” he inquired next.
“I think Mr. Penrose has left us.”
As she answered she looked toward Lady Loring.
The hostess was the center of a circle of ladies and gentlemen. Before she was at liberty, Father Benwell might take his departure.
Stella resolved to make the attempt for herself which she had asked Lady Loring to make for her.
It was better to try, and to be defeated, than not to try at all.
“I asked Mr. Penrose what part of Devonshire you were visiting,” she resumed, assuming her more gracious manner.
“I know something myself of the north coast, especially the neighborhood of Clovelly.”
Not the faintest change passed over the priest’s face; his fatherly smile had never been in a better state of preservation.
“Isn’t it a charming place?” he said with enthusiasm.
“Clovelly is the most remarkable and most beautiful village in England.
I have so enjoyed my little holiday—excursions by sea and excursions by land—you know I feel quite young again?”
He lifted his eyebrows playfully, and rubbed his plump hands one over the other with such an intolerably innocent air of enjoyment that Stella positively hated him.
She felt her capacity for self-restraint failing her. Under the influence of strong emotion her thoughts lost their customary discipline.
In attempting to fathom Father Benwell, she was conscious of having undertaken a task which required more pliable moral qualities than she possessed.
To her own unutterable annoyance, she was at a loss what to say next.
At that critical moment her mother appeared—eager for news of the conquest of Romayne.
“My dear child, how pale you look!” said Mrs. Eyrecourt.
“Come with me directly—you must have a glass of wine.”