“That is true.”

“I thought I would drive there to-day before I went to rehearsal.”

“Why choose a day on which you have a rehearsal?”

“Only because I’ve put it off so often.  Something always happens to prevent me.  I must see my father.”

“Have you written to him?”

“No, but I sent him a paper containing an account of the first night.  I thought he might have written to me about it, or he might have come to see me.  He must know that I am dying to see him.”

“I think it would be better for you to go to see him in the first instance.”

Lady Duckle meant Evelyn to understand that it would not be well to risk anything that might bring about a meeting between Sir Owen and Mr. Innes.  But she did not dare to be more explicit.  Owen had forbidden any discussion of his relations with Evelyn.

“Of course it would be nice for you to see your father.  But you should, I think, go to him; surely that is the proper course.”

“We’ve written to each other from time to time, but not lately—­not since we went to Greece....  I’ve neglected my correspondence.”

Tears rose to Evelyn’s eyes, and Lady Duckle was sorely tempted to lead her into confidences.  But Owen’s counsels prevailed; she dissembled, saying that she knew how Evelyn loved her father, and how nice it would be for her to see him again after such a long absence.

“I dare say he’ll forgive me, but there’ll be reproaches.  I don’t think there’s anyone who hates a scene more than I do.”

“I haven’t lived with you five years without having found out that.  But in avoiding a disagreeable scene we are often preparing one more disagreeable.”

“That is true....  I think I’ll go to Dulwich.”

“Shall you have time?...  You’re not in the first act.”

“Dulwich is not six miles from here.  We can drive there easily in three-quarters of an hour.  And three-quarters of an hour to get back.  They won’t begin to rehearse the second act before one.  It is a little after ten now.”

“Then good-bye.”

Lady Duckle followed her to the front door and stood for a moment to admire the beauty of the morning.  The chestnut horses pawed the ground restlessly, excited by the scent of the lilac which a wilful little breeze carried up from Hamilton Place.  Every passing hansom was full of flowered silks, and the pale laburnum gold hung in loose tassels out of quaint garden inlets.  The verandahed balconies seemed to hang lower than ever, and they were all hung and burdened with flowers.  And of all these eighteenth century houses, Evelyn’s was the cosiest, and the elder of the two men, who, from the opposite pavement, stood watching the prima donna stroking the quivering nostrils of her almost thoroughbred chestnuts with her white-gloved hand, could easily imagine her in her pretty drawing-room standing beside a cabinet filled with Worcester and old Battersea china, for he knew Owen’s taste and was certain the Louis XVI. marble clock would be well chosen, and he would have bet five-and-twenty-pounds that there were some Watteau and Gainsborough drawings on the walls.