"You don't
know how I miss the dear gentle little fellow," he said, sadly.
"Why not write to him?" I suggested. "He would be so glad to hear from
you again."
"I don't know where to write."
"Did I not send you his address when I forwarded your letter to him?"
"No."
"Then let me atone for my forgetfulness at once."
I wrote down the address, and took my leave.
As I approached the door I noticed on a side table the Catholic volumes
which Penrose left with Romayne. One of them was open, with a pencil
lying beside it. I thought that a good sign--but I said nothing.
Romayne pressed my hand at parting. "You have been very kind and
friendly, Father Benwell," he said. "I shall be glad to see you again."
Don't mention it in quarters where it might do me harm. Do you know, I
really pitied him. He has sacrificed everything to his marriage--and his
marriage has disappointed him. He was even reduced to be friendly with
Me.
Of course when the right time comes I shall give Penrose leave of
absence. Do you foresee, as I do, the speedy return of "the dear gentle
little fellow" to his old employment; the resumed work of conversion
advancing more rapidly than ever; and the jealousy of the Protestant
wife aggravating the false position in which she is already placed by
her equivocal reception of Winterfield? You may answer this by reminding
me of the darker side of the prospect.
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