She had lain down on the sofa after breakfast, hoping to sleep a little; if she didn’t, the time would be very long; but as she dozed, she began to see the thin, worn face and the piercing eyes, and the intonation of his voice began to ring in her ears.  As she thought or as she dreamed, the striking of the clock reminded her of the number of hours that separated them.  Only four hours and she would be kneeling at his feet!  Then she felt that she had advanced a stage, and was appreciably nearer the inevitable end, and lay staring at the sequence of events.  She saw the hours stretching out reaching to him, and she, all the while, was moving through the hours automatically.  All kind of similes presented themselves to her mind.  She asked herself how it was that Monsignor had come into her life.  She had not sought him; she had not wanted him in her life, but he had come!  She remembered the first time she saw him—­that Sunday morning when she went to St. Joseph’s to meet her father’s choir—­and could recall the exact appearance of the church as he walked across the aisle to the pulpit.  It was illuminated by a sudden ray of sunlight falling through one of the eastern windows, and she remembered how it had lighted up the thin, narrow face, bringing a glow of colour to the dark skin till it seemed like one of the carved saints she had seen in Romanesque churches on the Rhine.  She remembered the shape of the small head, carried well back, and how she had been impressed by the slow stride with which he crossed the sanctuary.  Then her thoughts passed to the moment when, standing in the pulpit, he had looked out on the congregation, seeming to divine the presence of some great sinner there.  She had felt that he was aware of her existence, for in that moment the thin grey eyes seemed to see her, even to think her, and they had frightened her, they were so clear, so set on some purpose—­God’s or the Church’s.  She had met him that evening at a concert, and how well she remembered her father introducing him!  He had spoken to her several minutes; everyone in the room was looking at them, and she recalled the scene—­all the girls, their dresses, and the expression of their eyes.  But she could not recall what Monsignor had said, only her impressions; the same strange fascination and fear which she had experienced when Owen came to the concerts long ago—­that loud winter’s night, harsh and hard as iron.  Owen had stood talking to her too, and she had been fascinated....  He had admired her singing, and Monsignor had admired her singing; but she was determined not to sing until Monsignor had asked her to sing, and when he has asked her to go to the convent she had gone.  It was very strange; she could not account for it.  It was all beyond herself, outside of her, far away like the stars, and she felt now as she did whenever she looked at the stars.  Was her character essentially weak, and was she liable to all these influences, these facile assimilations?  Was there nothing within her, no abiding principle, nothing that she could call her own?  She walked up the room, and tried to understand herself—­what was she, bad or good, weak or strong?  If she only knew what she was, then she would know how to act.