At meals, too, conversation turned now more on art than on missions. Pictures seen by the two friends years before; Helbeck's fading recollections of Florence and Rome; modern Catholic art as it was being developed in the Jesuit churches of the Continent: of these things Williams would talk, and talk eagerly. Sometimes Augustina would timidly introduce some subject of greater practical interest to the commonplace English Catholic. Mr. Williams would let it drop; and then Mrs. Fountain would sit silent and ill at ease, her head and hands twitching in a helpless bewildered way. But in a moment came a change. After a certain Thursday when he was at work all day, the young man painted no more. Beyond St. Ursula, St. Eulalia of Saragossa, Virgin and Martyr, had been sketched in, with a strange force of line and some suggestions both of colour and symbolism that held Laura fascinated. But the sketch remained ghostlike on the wall. The high stool was removed; the blouse put away. Thenceforward Mr. Williams--to Laura's secret anger--spent hours in Helbeck's study reading. His avoidance of her society and Mrs. Fountain's was more marked than ever. His face, which in the first days at Bannisdale had begun to recover a certain boyish bloom, became again white and drawn. The eyes were scarcely ever seen; if, by some rare chance, the heavy lids did lift, the fire and brilliance of the gaze below were startling to the bystander. But for the most part he seemed to be wrapped in a dumb sickliness and pain; his person was even less cleanly, his clothes less cared for, than before. At table he hardly talked at all; never of painting, or of any topic connected with it. * * * * * Once or twice Laura caught Helbeck's look fixed upon his guest in what seemed to her anxiety or perplexity. But when she carelessly asked him what might be wrong with Mr. Williams, the Squire gave a decided answer. "He is ill--and we ought not to have allowed him to do this work. There must be complete rest till he goes." "Has he seen his father?" asked Laura. "No. That is still hanging over him." "Does his father wish to see him?" "No! But it is his duty to go." "Why? That he may enjoy a little more martyrdom?" Helbeck laughed and captured her hand. "What penalty do I exact for that?" "It doesn't deserve any," she said quickly. "I don't think it is for health he has given up his painting. I believe he is unhappy." "It may have revived old struggles," said Helbeck, with a sigh that seemed to escape him against his will. "Why doesn't he give it all up," she said with energy, "and be an artist? That's where his heart, his strength, lies." Helbeck's manner changed and stiffened. "You are entirely mistaken, dearest. His heart and his strength are in his vocation--in making himself a good Jesuit." She shook her head obstinately, with that rising breath of excitement which the slightest touch of difference was now apt to call up.