her own household. My eldest daughter, Father Benwell--a poor foolish
creature--was converted into a nunnery. The last time I saw her (she
used to be sweetly pretty; my dear husband quite adored her)--the last
time I saw her she had a red nose, and, what is even more revolting at
her age, a double chin. She received me with her lips pursed up, and
her eyes on the ground, and she was insolent enough to say that she
would pray for me. I am not a furious old man with a long white
beard, and I don't curse my daughter and rush out into a thunderstorm
afterward--but _I_ know what King Lear felt, and _I_ have struggled with
hysterics just as he did. With your wonderful insight into human nature,
I am sure you will sympathize with and forgive me. Mr. Penrose, as my
daughter tells me, behaved in the most gentleman-like manner. I make
the same appeal to your kind forbearance. The bare prospect of our dear
friend here becoming a Catholic--"

Romayne's temper gave way once more.

"If anything can make me a Catholic," he said, "your interference will
do it."

"Out of sheer perversity, dear Romayne?"

"Not at all, Mrs. Eyrecourt. If I became a Catholic, I might escape from
the society of ladies, in the refuge of a monastery."

Mrs. Eyrecourt hit him back again with the readiest dexterity.

"Remain a Protestant, my dear, and go to your club. There is a refuge
for you from the ladies--a monastery, with nice little dinners, and all
the newspapers and periodicals." Having launched this shaft, she got