The next day was Friday, and as the train service seemed complex and inconvenient, and as she had not at Dulwich a suitable dress to wear at the concert, she decided to sleep at Park Lane and drive to Wimbledon in the afternoon.  She left her father, promising to return to him soon, and she had told Ulick that she thought it better he should return by train.  She saw that he had noticed the book in her hand, and she knew that he understood her plea that she did not wish to be seen driving with him to mean that she was going to call on Monsignor on her way home.  She had thought of calling at St. Joseph’s, but, unable to think of a sufficient excuse for the visit, had abandoned the idea.  She knew the time was not opportune.  Monsignor would be hearing confessions.  But as the carriage turned out of Camberwell, she remembered that it would be polite to thank him for the book, and leaning forward she told the coachman to drive to St. Joseph’s....  So after all she was going there....  Ulick was right.

The attendant told her that Monsignor was hearing confessions, and would not be free for another half-hour.  She drew a breath of relief, for this second visit had frightened her.  The attendant asked her if she would wait.  She thought she would like to wait in church.  She desired its collectedness, its peace.  But the thought of Monsignor’s confessional frightened her, and she thanked the attendant hurriedly, and went slowly to her carriage.

When Ulick came in that evening she was seated on the corner of the sofa near the window.  The moon was shining on the breathless park, and a moth whirled between the still flames of the candles which burned on the piano.  He noticed that her mood was subdued and reflective.  She liked him to sit by her, to take her hand and tell her he loved her.  She liked to listen to him, but not to music; nor would she sing that evening, and his questions as to the cause remained unanswered.  Her voice was calm and even, and seemed to come from far away.  There was a tremor in his, and between whiles they watched and wondered at the flight of the moth.  It seemed attracted equally by darkness and light.  It emerged from the darkness, fluttered round the perilous lights and returned again to its natural gloom.  But the temptation could not be resisted, and it fell singed on the piano.

“We ought to have quenched those candles,” Evelyn said.

“It would have found others,” Ulick answered, and he took the maimed moth on to the balcony and trod it out of its misery.  They sat there under the little green verandah, and in the colour of the clear night their talk turned on the stars and the Zodiacal signs.  Ulick was born under the sign of Aquarius, and all the important events of his life began when Aquarius was rising.  Pointing to a certain group of stars, he said—­

“The story of Grania is no more than our story, your story, my story, and the story of Sir Owen Asher, and I had written my poem before I saw you.”  Then, as a comment on this fact, he added, “We should be careful what we write, for what we write will happen.  Grania is the beautiful fortune which we will strive for, which chooses one man to-day and another to-morrow.”