But while Laura was still wondering at the general impression of rich beauty, at the Lenten purple of the altar, at the candelabra, and the perfume, certain figures and colours on the wall close to her seized her, thrusting the rest aside. On either side of the altar, the walls to right and left, from the entrance up to the sanctuary, were covered with what appeared to be recent painting--painting, indeed, that was still in the act. On either hand, long rows of life-sized saints, men and women, turned their adoring faces towards the Christ looking down upon them from a crucifix above the tabernacle. On the north wall, about half the row was unfinished; faces, haloes, drapery, strongly outlined in red, still waited for the completing hand of the artist. The rest glowed and burned with colour--colour the most singular, the most daring. The carnations and rose colours, the golds and purples, the blues and lilacs and greens--in the whole concert of tone, in spite of its general simplicity of surface, there was something at once ravishing and troubling, something that spoke as it were from passion to passion. Laura's nature felt the thrill of it at once, just as she had felt the thrill of the sunshine lighting up the tapestry of her room. "Why isn't it crude and hideous?" she asked herself, in a marvel. "But it isn't. One never saw such blues--except in the sea--or such greens--and rose! And the angels between!--and the flowers under their feet!--Heavens! how lovely! Who did it?" "Do you admire the frescoes?" said a little voice behind her. She turned hastily, and saw Father Bowles smiling upon her, his plump white hands clasped in front of him, as usual. It was an attitude which seemed to make the simplest words sound intimate and possessive. Laura shrank from, it in quick annoyance. "They are very strange, and--and startling," she said stiffly, moving as far away from the grey-haired priest as possible. "Who painted them?" "Mr. Helbeck first designed them. But they were carried out for a time by a youth of great genius." Father Bowles dwelt softly upon the word "_ge_-nius," as though he loved it. "He was once a lad from these parts, but has now become a Jesuit. So the work was stopped." "What a pity!" said Laura impetuously. "He ought to have been a painter." The priest smiled, and made her an odd little bow. Then, without saying anything more about the artist, he chattered on about the frescoes and the chapel, as though he had beside him the most sympathetic of listeners. Nothing that he said was the least interesting or striking; and Laura, in a passion of silent dislike, kept up a steady movement towards the door all the time. In the passage outside Mrs. Fountain was lingering alone. And when Laura appeared she caught hold of her stepdaughter and detained her while the priest passed on. Laura looked at her in surprise, and Mrs. Fountain, in much agitation, whispered in the girl's ear: