Father Benwell sighed. “Ah, I understand!” he said, sadly. “The house associated with Mr. Winterfield’s visit—”
Romayne again interrupted him—this time by gesture only. The hand that had made the sign clinched itself when it rested afterward on the table. His eyes looked downward, under frowning brows. At the name of Winterfield, remembrances that poisoned every better influence in him rose venomously in his mind. Once more he loathed the deceit that had been practiced on him. Once more the detestable doubt of that asserted parting at the church door renewed its stealthy torment, and reasoned with him as if in words: She has deceived you in one thing; why not in another?
“Can I see my lawyer here?” he asked, suddenly.
“My dear Romayne, you can see any one whom you like to invite.”
“I shall not trouble you by staying very long, Father Benwell.”
“Do nothing in a hurry, my son. Pray do nothing in a hurry!”
Romayne paid no attention to this entreaty. Shrinking from the momentous decision that awaited him, his mind instinctively took refuge in the prospect of change of scene. “I shall leave England,” he said, impatiently.
“Not alone!” Father Benwell remonstrated.
“Who will be my companion?”
“I will,” the priest answered.