"I don't think so!--and I have watched him. Suppose he _did_ give it all up? He could, of course, at any time." Helbeck tried to smile and change the subject. But Laura persisted. Till at last the Squire said with pain: "Darling--I don't think you know how these things sound in Catholic ears." "But I want to know. You see, I don't understand anything about vows. I can't imagine why that man can't walk into a studio and leave his clerical coat behind him to-morrow. To me nothing seems easier. He is a human being, and free." Helbeck was silent, and began to put some letters in order that were lying on his table. Laura's caprice only grew stronger. "If he were to leave the Jesuits," she said, "would you break with him?" As Mr. Williams was safely in the park with Augustina, Laura had resumed her accustomed place in the low seat beside Helbeck's writing-table. Augustina, for decorum's sake, had her arm-chair on the further side of the fireplace, where she often dozed, knitted, and read the newspapers. But she left the betrothed a good deal alone, less from a natural feminine sympathy than because she fed herself day by day on the hope that, in spite of all, Alan would yet set himself in earnest to the task that was clearly his--the task of Laura's conversion. Helbeck showed no more readiness to answer her second inquiry than her first. He seemed to be absorbed in reading over a business letter. Laura's pride was roused. Her cheeks flushed, and she repeated her question, her mind filled all the time with that mingled dread and wilfulness that must have possessed poor Psyche when she raised the lamp. "Well, no," said Helbeck dryly, without lifting his eyes from his letter--"I don't suppose that he would remain my friend, under such strange circumstances--or that he would wish it." "So you would cast him off?" "Why will you start such uncomfortable topics, dear?" he said, half laughing. "What has poor Williams done that you should imagine such things?" "I want to know what _you_ would do if Mr. Williams--if any priest you know were to break his vows and leave the Church, what would you do?" "Follow the judgment of the Church," said Helbeck quietly. "And give up your friend!" "Friendship, darling, is a complex thing--it depends upon so much. But I am so tired of my letters! Your hat is in the hall. Won't you come out?" He rose, and bent over her tenderly, his hand on the table. In a flash she felt all the strange dignity, the ascetic strength of his personality; it was suggested this time by the mere details of dress--by the contrast between the worn and shabby coat, and the stern force of the lips, the refined individuality of the hand. She was filled anew with the sudden sense that she knew but half of him--a sudden terror of the future. She lay back in her chair, meeting his eyes and trying to smile. But in truth she was quivering with impatience.