She was in the music-room, looking through the first act of “Grania,” and thinking that perhaps after all she might remain on the stage and create the part.  Her father had gone to St. Joseph’s for choir practice, Ulick had gone to London for strings for her viola da gamba; and all the morning she had been uneasy and expectant.  The feeling never quite left her that something was about to happen, that she was to meet someone—­someone for whom she had been waiting a long while.  So she started on hearing the front door bell ring.  She could think of no one whom it might be unless Owen.  If it were, what would she say?  And she waited, eager for the servant to announce the visitor.  It was Monsignor Mostyn.

She was dressed in a muslin tea-gown over shot green silk, and was conscious of her triviality as she stood before the tall, spare ecclesiastic.  She admired the calm, refined beauty of his face, the bright, dark eyes and the thin features, steadfast and aloof as some saints she had seen in pictures.

“I called to see your father, Miss Innes, but he is not in, and hearing that you were, I asked to see you.  For my business is really with you, that is, if you can spare the time?”

“Won’t you sit down, Monsignor?”

“I have come, Miss Innes, to remind you of a promise that you once made me.”

The colour returned to her cheeks, and a smile to her lips.  But she did not remember, and was slightly embarrassed.

“Did I make you a promise?”

“Have you forgotten my speaking to you about some poor sisters who might be driven from their convent if they failed to pay the interest on a mortgage?”

“Ah, yes, on the night of the concert.”

“They have paid the interest and kept a roof over their heads, but in doing so they have exhausted their resources; and not to put too fine a point upon it, I am afraid they often have not enough to eat.  Something must be done for them.  I thought that a concert would be the quickest way of getting them some money.”

“You want me to sing?”

“It really would be a charitable action.”

“I shall be delighted to sing for them.  Where is this convent?”

“At Wimbledon.”

“My old convent!  The Passionist Sisters!”

“Your old convent?”

“Yes,” Evelyn replied, the colour rising slightly to her cheeks.  “I made a retreat there, long ago, before I went on the stage.”

She was grieved to hear that the Reverend Mother she had known was dead; she had died two years ago, and Mother Margaret was dead too.  Monsignor could tell her nothing about Sister Bonaventure.  Mother Philippa was the sub-prioress; and in the midst of her questions he explained how the financial difficulties had arisen.  They were, he said, the result of the imprudences of the late Reverend Mother, one of the best and holiest of women, but unfortunately not endowed with sufficient business foresight.  He was quite prepared to admit that the little wooden chapel which had preceded the present chapel was inadequate, and that she was justified in building another, but not in expending nearly one thousand pounds in stained glass.  The new chapel had cost ten thousand pounds, and the interest of this money had to be paid.  There were other debts—­