While wondering at the grotesque movement of the trotting horse, Evelyn tried once more to save herself from this visit to St. Joseph’s.  She thought of what it would cost her—­her present life!  Her lovers were gone already, and Monsignor would tell her that she must give up the stage.  But these considerations did not alter the fact that she was going to St. Joseph’s.  She was rolling thither, like a stone down a hill.  She saw the streets and people as she passed them, as a stone might if it had eyes.  All power of will had been taken from her; it was the same as when she went to meet Owen at Berkeley Square, and in a strange lucidity of mind, she asked herself if it were not true that we are never more than mere machines set in motion by a master hand, predestined to certain courses, purblind creatures who do not perceive their own helplessness, except in rare moments of heightened consciousness.  As if to convince herself on this point, she strove to raise her hand to open the trap in the roof of the hansom, and her fear increased on finding that she could not.  To acquire the necessary strength, she reminded herself that she was wrecking her whole life for an idea, for, perhaps, nothing more than a desire to confess her sins.  Again she tried to raise her hand, and she looked round, feeling that nothing short of some extraordinary accident could save her, nothing except an accident to the horse or carriage could save her artistic life.  Some material accident, nothing else....  Monsignor might not be at St. Joseph’s.  Perhaps he had left town.  Nobody stayed in town in September, and for a moment it seemed hardly worth while to continue her drive.  Her thoughts came to a standstill, and, as in a nervous vision, Evelyn saw that the whole of her future life depended on her seeing Monsignor that day.  She foresaw that if she were turned away from the door of St. Joseph’s, she would never come back; never would she be able to bring herself to the point again.  She would find Owen waiting for her; wherever she went, she would meet him; sooner or later the temptation to return to him would overcome her.  Then, indeed, she would be lost; then, indeed, her tragedy would begin....  Ah! if she could only cease to think for a little while; only for a little while.  She had tried to escape from him once before, and had not succeeded because there was no one to help her.  Now there was Monsignor.  The reflection cheered her, and a few minutes were left to discover how much of her conversion was owing to her original nature, and how much to Monsignor’s influence.  It seemed to her that if she were certain of this point, she would know whether she should go forward or back.  But her heart gave back no answer, and she grew more helpless, and terrified, like a bird fallen into the fascination of a serpent.  She was uncertain if she could lead a good life.  She no longer desired anything.  She was conscious of no sensation, except that she was rolling independent of her own