“If there is anything in my nature, worthy to be set as an example to you,” he replied, “you know to what blessed influence I owe self-discipline and serenity of mind. Remember what I said when I left you in London, to go back to my friendless life. I told you that I found, in the Faith I held, the one sufficient consolation which helped me to bear my lot. And—if there came a time of sorrow in the future—I entreated you to remember what I had said. Have you remembered it?”
“Look at the book here on my desk—look at the other books, within easy reach, on that table—are you satisfied?”
“More than satisfied. Tell me—do you feel nearer to an understanding of the Faith to which I have tried to convert you?”
There was a pause. “Say that I do feel nearer,” Romayne resumed—“say that some of my objections are removed—are you really as eager as ever to make a Catholic of me, now that I am a married man?”
“I am even more eager,” Penrose answered. “I have always believed that your one sure way to happiness lay through your conversion. Now, when I know, from what I have seen and heard in this room, that you are not reconciled, as you should be, to your new life, I am doubly confined in my belief. As God is my witness, I speak sincerely. Hesitate no longer! Be converted, and be happy.”
“Have you not forgotten something, Penrose?”
“What have I forgotten?”
“A serious consideration, perhaps. I have a Protestant wife.”
“I have borne that in mind, Romayne, throughout our conversation.”
“And you still say—what you have just said?”