For the last few days he had been engaged in prediction, and last night he had been visited by dreams, the significance of which he could not doubt.  But his reading of her horoscope had been incomplete, or else he had failed to understand the answers.  That he was a momentous event in her life seemed clear, yet all the signs were set against their marriage; but what was happening had been revealed—­that he should stand with her in a room where the carpet was blue, and they were there; that the furniture should be of last century, and he examined the cabinets in the corners, which were satinwood inlaid with delicate traceries, and on the walls were many mirrors and gold and mahogany frames.

“Merat!” The maid came from the dressing-room.  “You have some friends in front.  You can go and sit with them.  I sha’n’t want you till the end.”  When the door closed, their eyes met, and they trembled and were in dread.  “Come and sit by me.”  She indicated his place by her side on the sofa.  “We are all alone.  Talk to me.  How did I sing to-night?”

“Never did the music ever mean so much as it did to-night,” he said, sitting down.

“What did it mean?”

“Everything.  All the beauty and the woe of existence were in the music to-night.”

Their thoughts wandered from the music, and an effort was required to return to it.

“Do you remember,” she said, with a little gasp in her voice, “how the music sinks into the slumber motive, ‘Hark, beloved;’ then he answers, ’Let me die’?”

“Yes, and with the last note the undulating tune of the harps begins in the orchestra.  Brangaene is heard warning them.”

They sat looking at each other.  In sheer desperation she said—­

“And that last phrase of all, when the souls of the lovers seemed to float away.”

“Over the low rim of the universe—­like little clouds.”

“And then?”

He tried to speak of his ideas, but he could not collect his thoughts, and after a few sentences he said, “I cannot talk of these things.”

The room seemed to sway and cloud, and her arms to reach out instinctively to him, and she would have fallen into his arms if he had not suddenly asked her what had been decided at Sir Owen Asher’s.

“Let me kiss you, Evelyn,” he said, “or I shall go mad.”

“No, Ulick, this is not nice of you.  I shall not be able to ask you to my room again.”

He let go her hand, and she said—­

“I’m not going to marry Sir Owen, but I must not let you kiss me.”

“But you must, Evelyn, you must.”

“Why must I?”

“Do you not feel that it is to be?”

“What is to be?”

“I do not know what, but I have been drawn towards you so long a while—­long before I saw you, ever since I heard your name, the moment I saw that old photograph in the music-room, I knew.”

“What did you know?”