He spoke with a smiling courtesy as excessive as his silky moustache, his long straw-colored beard, and his Panama hat. Madame de Netteville surveyed him with cool, critical eyes. Robert smiled slightly, acknowledged the bow, but did not speak. Mr. Wishart evidently took no heed of anything but his own thoughts. He sat bolt upright with shining excited eyes. ‘Ah, I remember that article of yours in the _Fortnightly!_ How you sceptics miss the point!’ And out came a stream of argument and denunciation which had probably lain lava-hot at the heart of the young convert for years, waiting for such a moment as this, when he had before him at close quarters two of the most famous antagonists of his faith. The outburst was striking, but certainly unpardonably ill-timed. Madame de Netteville retreated into herself with a shrug. Robert, in whom a sore nerve had been set jarring, did his utmost to begin his talk with her again. In vain!--for the Squire struck in. He had been sitting huddled together--his cynical eyes wandering from Wishart to Elsmere--when suddenly some extravagant remark of the young Catholic, and Robert’s effort to edge away from the conversation, caught his attention at the same moment. His face hardened, and in his nasal voice he dealt a swift epigram at Mr. Wishart, which for the moment left the young disputant floundering. But only for the moment. In another minute or two the argument, begun so casually, had developed into a serious trial of strength, in which the Squire and young Wishart took the chief parts, while Mr. Spooner threw in a laugh and a sarcasm here and there. And as long as Mr. Wendover talked Madame de Netteville listened. Robert’s restless repulsion to the whole incident; his passionate wish to escape from these phrases, and illustrations, and turns of argument which were all so wearisomely stale and familiar to him, found no support in her. Mrs. Darcy dared not second his attempts at chat, for Mr. Wendover, on the rare occasions when he held forth, was accustomed to be listened to; and Elsmere was of too sensitive a social fibre to break up the party by an abrupt exit, which could only have been interpreted in one way. So he stayed, and perforce listened, but in complete silence. None of Mr. Wendover’s side-hits touched him. Only as the talk went on, the Rector in the background got paler and paler; his eyes, as they passed from the mobile face of the Catholic convert, already, for those who knew, marked with the signs of death, to the bronzed visage of the Squire, grew duller--more instinct with a slowly dawning despair.