He raised his eyes and saw a tall, fair girl dressed in pale green.  Mr. Innes introduced them.

“My daughter—­Sir Owen Asher.”

In the little while which he took to decide whether he would take tea or coffee, he thought that something could be said for her figure, and he liked her hair, but, on the whole, he did not think he cared for her.  She seemed to him an unimportant variety of what he had met before.  He said he would take tea, and then he changed his mind and said he would have coffee, but Evelyn came back with a cup of tea, and perceiving her mistake, she laughed abstractedly.

“You are going to sing two songs, Miss Innes.  I’m glad; I hear your voice is wonderful.”

The sound of his voice conveyed a penetrating sense of his presence.  It was the same happiness which the very sight of him had awakened in her, and she felt herself yielding to it as to a current.  She was borne far away into mists of dream, where she seemed to live a long while.  Time seemed to have ceased and the outside world to have fallen behind her.  The sensation was the most delicious she had ever experienced.  She hardly heard the answers that she made to his questions, and when her father called her, it was like returning after a long absence.

She sang much more beautifully than he had expected, and during the preludes and fugues and the sonatas by Bach, which finished the programme, he thought of her voice, occasionally questioning himself regarding his taste for her.  Even in this short while he had come to like her better.  She had beautiful teeth and hair, and he liked her figure, notwithstanding the fact that her shoulders sloped a little—­perhaps because they did slope a little.  He noticed, whether her eyes wandered or remained fixed, that they returned to him, and that their glance was one of interrogation, as if all depended upon him.  When the concert was over he was anxious to speak to her, so that he grew impatient with the people who stopped his way.  The back room was filled with musical instruments—­there were two harpsichords, a clavichord and an organ, and Mr. Innes insisted on explaining these instruments to him.  He seemed to Owen to pay too slight a heed to his daughter’s voice.  That she played the viola da gamba very well was true enough, but what sense was there in a girl like that playing an instrument?  Her voice was her instrument.

When he was able to get a few words with her, he told her about Madame Savelli.  There was no one else, he said, who could teach singing.  She must go to France at once, and he seemed to take it for granted that she might start at the end of the week, if she only made up her mind.  She did not know what answer to make, and was painfully conscious how silly she must look standing before him unable to say a word.  It was no longer the same; some of the dream had been swept aside, and reality had begun to look through it.  Her intense consciousness of this tall, aristocratic