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!”
The moment he was gone, she drew her daughter into a quiet corner. “Don’t be frightened, Stella. That sly old person has some interest in trying to find out about Winterfield. Do you know why?”
“Indeed I don’t, mamma. I hate him!”
“Oh, hush! hush! Hate him as much as you like; but always be civil to him. Tell me—have you been in the conservatory with Romayne?”
“Yes.”
“All going on well?”