moment she tried to distinguish what was there, the vision faded.  Even now she knew that she would not marry Ulick, and this not because she would refuse her father anything, but merely because it was not to be.  Her eyes went to the piano, but on the way there she stopped to ask herself a question.  Why was she in London at this time of year?  She knew why she did not care to go to Homburg—­because she was tired of society.  But why did she not go to some quiet seaside place where she could enjoy the summer weather?  She would like to sit on the beach and hear the sea.  Her soul threatened to give back a direct answer, and she dismissed the question.

She paced the empty alley facing the Bayswater Road.  No one was there except a nursemaid and a small child, and she and they shared the solitude.  She could see the omnibuses passing, and hear the clank of the heavy harness, and seated on one of the seats she drew diagrams on the gravel with her parasol.  Owen said there was no meaning in life, that it was no more than an unfortunate accident between two eternal sleeps.  But she had never been able to believe that this was so; and if she had sought to disbelieve in God, it was as Monsignor had said, because she wished to lead a sinful life.  And if she could not believe in annihilation, there could be no annihilation for her, that was Ulick’s theory.  The name of her lover brought up the faded Bloomsbury Square, the litter of manuscript and the books on magic!  She had tried to believe in readings of the stars.  But such vague beliefs had not helped her.  In spite of all her efforts, the world was slipping behind her; Owen and Ulick and her stage career seemed very little compared with the certainty within her that she was leading a sinful life, and she was only really certain of that.  The omnibuses in the road outside, the railways beyond the town, the ships upon the sea, what were these things to her—­or yet the singing of operas?  The only thing that really mattered was her conscience.

Then, almost without thinking at all, in a sort of stupor, she walked over the hill and descended the slope, and leaning over the balustrade she looked at the fountains.  But the splashing water explained nothing, and she turned to resume her walk; and she reflected that to send away her lovers would avail her nothing, unless she subsequently confessed her sins and obtained the priest’s absolution.  Monsignor would tell her that to send away her lovers was not sufficient, and he would refuse his absolution unless she promised him not to see them any more.  That promise she could not give, for she had promised Ulick that she would sing Grania, and she had promised Owen to see him in three months.  It seemed to her both weak and shameful to break either of these promises.  The spire of Kensington Church showed sharp as a needle on a calm sky, and it was in a sudden anguish of mind that she determined that her repentance must be postponed.  She had considered the question from every point of view, and could not at once reverse her life; the change must come gradually.  She had sent Owen away; that was enough for the present.