"Not yet." Father Benwell laid a strong emphasis on those two little
words. His fat fingers drummed restlessly on the table; his vigilant
eyes rested expectantly on Penrose. "Surely you understand me, Arthur?"
he added, after an interval.

The color rose slowly in the worn face of Penrose. "I am afraid to
understand you," he said.

"Why?"

"I am not sure that it is my better sense which understands. I am
afraid, Father, it may be my vanity and presumption."

Father Benwell leaned back luxuriously in his chair. "I like that
modesty," he said, with a relishing smack of his lips as if modesty was
as good as a meal to him. "There is power of the right sort, Arthur,
hidden under the diffidence that does you honor. I am more than ever
satisfied that I have been right in reporting you as worthy of this
most serious trust. I believe the conversion of the owner of Vange Abbey
is--in your hands--no more than a matter of time."

"May I ask what his name is?"

"Certainly. His name is Lewis Romayne."

"When do you introduce me to him?"

"Impossible to say. I have not yet been introduced myself."