She had told him then that she did not believe one word of what the monk had insinuated; but she had been conscious even at the time that she was making what theologians call an act of faith. It was not that there were not difficulties to her in Ralph’s position--there were plenty--but she had determined by a final and swift decision to disregard them and believe in him. It was a last step in a process that continued ever since she had become interested by this strong brusque man; and it had been precipitated by the fanatical attack to which she had just been a witness. The discord, as she thought it, of Ralph’s character and actions had not been resolved; yet she had decided in that moment that it need not be; that her data as concerned those actions were insufficient; and that if she could not explain, at least she could trust. Ralph had been very honest, she told herself now. He had reminded her that he was a servant of Cromwell’s whom many believed to be an enemy of Church and State. She had nodded back to him steadily and silently, knowing what would follow from the paleness of his face, and his bright eyes beneath their wide lids. She had felt her own breast rise and fall and a pulse begin to hammer at the spring of her throat. Even now as she thought of it her heart quickened, and her hands clenched themselves. And then in one swift moment it had come. She had found her hands caught fiercely, and her eyes imprisoned by his; and then all was over, and she had given him an answer in a word. It had not been easy even after that. Cecily had questioned her more than once. Mrs. More had said a few indiscreet things that had been hard to bear; her own aunt had received the news in silence. But that was over now. The necessary consent on both sides had been given; and here she was once more walking up the road to Westminster with Ralph’s image before her eyes, and Ralph himself a hundred yards away. * * * * * She turned the last corner from the alley, passed up the little street, and turned again across the little cobbled yard that lay before the house. Mr. Morris was at the door as she came up, and he now stood aside. He seemed doubtful. “Mr. Torridon has gentlemen with him, madam.” “Then I will wait,” said Beatrice serenely, and made a motion to come in. The servant still half-hesitating opened the door wider; and Beatrice and her maid went through into the little parlour on the right. As she passed in she heard voices from the other door. Mr. Morris’s footsteps went down the passage. She had not very long to wait. There was the sound of a carriage driving up to the door presently, and her maid who sat in view of the window glanced out. Her face grew solemn. “It is Master Cromwell’s carriage,” she said. Beatrice was conscious of a vague discomfort; Master Cromwell, in spite of her efforts, was the shadowed side of Ralph’s life. “Is he coming in?” she said. The maid peeped again. “No, madam.”