Evelyn and her father had so much to say that it did not seem as if they ever would find time to say it in.  There was the story to tell of the construction of the vast choir and the difficulties he had experienced in teaching his singers to read at sight, for, as she knew, contrapuntal music cannot be sung except by singers who can sing unaccompanied.  The trebles and the altos were of course the great difficulty; the boys often burst into tears; they said they preferred to die rather than endure his discipline.  He was often sorry for them, for he knew that the perfect singing of this contrapuntal music was almost impossible except by castrati.  But he was able to communicate his enthusiasm; he told them stories of how the ancient choirs used to sing Palestrina’s masses without a rehearsal, how the ancient choirs used to compete one against the other, singing music they had never seen against men in the opposite organ loft whom they did not even know.  He was full of such stories; they served to fire the boys’ enthusiasm, and to change dislike into an inspiration.  He had hypnotised them into a love of Palestrina, and when they went home their parents had told him that the boys were always talking about the ancient music, and that they sat up at night reading motets.  He had told them that they would abandon all foolish pastimes for Palestrina, and they had in a measure; instead of batting and bowling, their ambition became sight singing.  Once a spirit of emulation is inspired, great things are accomplished.  There had been some beautiful singing at St. Joseph’s.  Three months ago he believed that his choir would have compared with some of the sixteenth century choirs.  Mr. Innes told an instructive story of how he had lost a most extraordinary treble, the best he had ever had.  No, he had not lost his voice; a casual word had done the mischief.  The boy had happened to tell his mother that Mr. Innes had said that he would give up cricket for Palestrina, and she, being a fool, had laughed at him.  Her laughter had ruined the boy; he had refused to sing any more; he had become a dissipated young rascal, up to every mischief.  Unfortunately, before he left he had influenced other boys; many had to be sent away as useless; and it was only now that his choir was beginning to recover from this egregious calamity.  But though the difficulty of the trebles and the altos was always the difficulty of his choir, it no longer seemed insuperable.  With the large amount of money at his disposal, he could afford to pay almost any amount of money for a good treble or alto, so every boy in London who showed signs of a voice was brought to him.  But in three or four years a boy’s voice breaks, and the task of finding another to take his place has to be undertaken.  Very often this is impossible; there are times when there are no voices.  The present time was such a one, and he fumed at the foolish woman whose casual word had broken up his choir three months ago, bemoaning that such a calamity should have happened just before Monsignor’s return from Rome.  It was for that reason he was giving the “Missa Brevis,” a small work easily done.  He declared he would give fifty pounds to recall his choir of three months ago, just for Evelyn and Monsignor to hear it.  Evelyn easily believed that he would, and as they parted inside the church she said—­