“Well Evelyn, when is all this nonsense going to cease?”

“I don’t know, Owen; I’m very unhappy.”

The sense of reconciliation which overtook her was too delicious to be resisted, and she remembered how all the way home she had longed for the moment when she would throw herself into his arms.  He had not reproved her nor reproached her; he had merely forgiven her the pain she had caused him.  There were sounds of children’s voices in the air and a glow of light upon the roofs.  Their talk had been gentle and philosophic; she had listened eagerly, and had promised to shun influences which made her uselessly unhappy.  And he had promised her that in time to come she would surely succeed in freeing herself from the tentacles of this church, and that the day would come when she would watch the Mass as she would some childish sport.  “Though,” he added, smiling, “it is doubtful if anyone can see his own rocking-horse without experiencing a desire to mount it.”  Nearly three years had passed since that time in Florence, and she was now going to put the strength of her agnosticism to the test.

“They have not built a new entrance,” she remarked to herself, as the coachman reined up the chestnuts before the meagre steps.  “But alterations are being made,” she thought, catching sight of some scaffolding.  As she stepped out of her carriage she remembered that her dress and horses could not fail to suggest Owen’s money to her father.  She paused, and then hoped he would remember that she was getting three hundred pounds a week, and could pay for her carriage and gowns herself.  And, smiling at the idea of dressing herself in a humble frock suitable for reconciliation, she entered the church hurriedly.  She did not care to meet him in open daylight, in the presence of her servants.  The church would be a better place.  He could not say much to her in church, and she thought she would like to meet him suddenly face to face; then there would be no time for explanations, and he could not refuse to speak to her.  Looking round she saw that Mass was in progress at one of the side altars.  The acolyte had just changed the book from the left to the right, and the congregation of about a dozen had risen for the reading of the Gospel.  She knew that her father was not among them.  She must have known all the while that he was not in church.  If he were at St. Joseph’s, he would be in the practising room.  She might go round and ask for him ... and run the risk of meeting one of the priests!  They were men of tact, and would refrain from unpleasant allusions.  But they knew she was on the stage, that she had not been back since she had left home; they could not but suspect; however they might speak, she could not avoid reading meanings, which very likely were not intended, into their words....  And she would see the practising room full of faces, and her father, already angry at the interruption, opening the door to her.  It would be worse than meeting him in the street.  No, she would not seek him in the practising room—­then where—­Dulwich?  Perhaps, but not to-day.  She would wait in the church and see if the Elevation compelled her to bow her head.