The immediate cause of the acute trouble the Canon was going through to-day had been a visit of the day before from Mrs. Delaport Green. Adela, who, as he had once told Mark, sometimes looked in for a few minutes, was under the impression that she very often called on the old blind priest, and often mentioned her little attempts to cheer him up with great complacence, especially to her Roman Catholic friends, as if she were a constant ray of light in his darkness. She had not seen him since her return from Cairo, but her first words were: "I was so sorry not to be able to come last week," spoken with the air of a weekly visitor. But the Canon thought it so kind of her to come at all that he was no critic of details in her regard. She had cantered with a light hand over all sorts of subjects,--Westminster Cathedral, the reunion of Churches, her own Catholic tendencies, her charities, the newest play (which she described well), and her anxiety because her husband ate too much. Then, at last, she lighted on Mark's sermons. Canon Nicholls spoke with reserve of Mark; he was shy of betraying his own affection for him. "Yes; it is young eloquence, fresh and quite genuine," he said in response to Adela's enthusiasm. "It sounds so very real," said Adela, with a sigh. "One couldn't imagine, you know, that he could have any doubts, or that he could be sorry, or disappointed, or anything of that sort--and yet----" "And yet, what?" asked the Canon. "And yet--well, I know I am foolish, and I do idealise people and make up heroes--I know I do! It is such a pleasure to admire people, isn't it? And after he gave up being heir to Groombridge Castle! I was staying there when poor, dear Lord Groombridge got the news of his ordination, and it was all so sad and so beautiful, and now I can't bear to think that Father Molyneux is sorry already that he gave it all up." "Sorry that he gave it up--!" Adela gave a little jump in her chair. It made her so nervous to see a blind man excited. But curiosity was strong within her. "I am afraid it is quite true; a friend of mine who knows him quite well, told me." "Told you _what_?" "That he was unhappy, and has doubts or troubles of some kind. I didn't understand what exactly, but she knows that he will give it all up--the vows and all that, I mean--if----" "If what?" Adela was not really wanting in courage. "If a certain very rich woman would marry him. It seems such a come-down, so very dull and dreadful, doesn't it?" "You know all that's a lie!" "Well, it was all told to me." "But you knew there was not a word of truth in it, only you wanted to see how I would take it. And I thought you were a kind-hearted woman! How blind I am!" Adela was galled to the quick. A quarrel, a scolding, would have been tolerable, and perhaps exciting, but this naive disappointment in herself, this judgment from the man to whom she had been so good, was too much!