While Mademoiselle Helbrun told of the different points in which they excelled, Evelyn thought and thought of the strange charm of the woman who had so ably continued the Master’s work.  She recalled the tall, bending figure, she saw the alley of clipped limes, she remembered the spacious rooms, and then his study, the walls lined with bookcases, books of legends and philosophical works, the room in which he had written “The Dusk of the Gods” and “Parsifal.”  Thinking of the studious months she had spent in that house, a vivid memory of one night shot across her brain.  It was a heavy, breathless night, without star or moon.  She had wandered into the dark garden; she had found her way to the grave, and standing by the Master’s side she had listened to the music and seen the guests passing across the lighted windows.  The warble of the fountain had seemed to her like the pulse of Eternity.  All that was three years ago.  “It is very wonderful, very wonderful,” she thought, and she awoke with a start, and Mademoiselle Helbrun saw she had not been listening.  She answered Louise’s subsequent remarks, and was glad that what had been had been.  She was giving it all up, it was true, but it was not as if she had not known life.

The sun was shining on the great brown river, and out of the smoke-dimmed sky white creamy clouds were faintly rising.  Evelyn’s eyes had wandered out there, and she seemed to see a thin face and hard, cold eyes, and she asked Louise abruptly what the time was, for she had forgotten her watch.  It was only just three o’clock.  She returned to the Munich performances, but Louise could see that Evelyn was all the time struggling against an overmastering fate.  The only thing she could think of was that Evelyn was being forced into a marriage or an elopement against her will.  Once or twice she thought that Evelyn was going to confide in her.  She waited, afraid to say a word lest she should check the confidences that her friend seemed tempted to entrust her with.  Evelyn’s eyes were dull and lifeless.  Louise could see that they did not see her, and it was with an effort that Evelyn said, “I am sorry I did not see your Frika;” and once started she rattled on for some time, hardly knowing what she was saying, arguing about the music and expressing opinions about everything and everybody.  Stopping abruptly, she again asked her friend what time it was.  Louise said that she must not go, and then tried to induce her to come for a drive with her; but Evelyn shook her head—­she was engaged.  There was no trace of colour in her face, and when Louise asked when they should meet again, she said she did not know, but she hoped very soon.  She might be obliged to go to Paris to-morrow, and she had to pay some visits to Scotland at the end of the month.  Louise did not like to question her, for she was sure that some momentous event was about to happen.  As she drove away Louise said, “I should not be surprised if she did not play Kundry next year.”