“Very little.  I am what is called a dramatic soprano.  The only Italian opera I’ve sung is ‘Norma.’  Do you know it?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve sung Leonore—­not in ‘Trovatore,’ in ‘Fidelio.’”

“But surely you admire ’Trovatore’—­the ‘Miserere,’ for instance.  Is not that beautiful?”

“It is no doubt very effective, but it is considered very common now.”  Evelyn hummed snatches of the opera; then the waltz from “Traviata.”  “I’ve sung Margaret.”

“Ah.”

And as she hummed the Jewel Song she watched the Reverend Mother’s face, and was certain that the nun had heard the music on the stage.  But at that moment the angelus bell rang.  Evelyn had forgotten the responses, and as she walked towards the convent she asked the Reverend Mother to repeat them once again, so that she might have them by heart.  She excused herself, saying how difficult was the observance of religious forms for those who live in the world.

After dinner she wrote two letters.  One was to her father, the other was to Monsignor, and having directed the letters she imagined the postal arrangement to be somewhat irregular.  After Benediction she would ask Veronica what time the letters left the convent.  And looking across the abyss which separated them, she saw her passionate self-centred past and Veronica’s little transit from the schoolroom to the convent.  It seemed strange to her that she never had what might be called a girl friend.  But she had arrived at a time when a woman friend was a necessity, and it now suddenly occurred to her that there would be something wonderfully sweet and satisfying in the uncritical love of a woman younger than herself.  She felt that the love of this innocent creature who knew nothing, who never would know anything, and who therefore would suspect nothing, would help her to forget her past as Monsignor wished.  She felt a sympathy awaken in her for her own sex which she had never known before, and this yearning was confounded in a desire to be among those who knew nothing of her past.  Now she was glad that she had refrained from taking the Reverend Mother into her confidence, and she wondered how much Monsignor had told her the day they had walked in the garden; it relieved her to remember that he knew very little except what she had told him in confession.

Someone knocked.  She answered, “Come in.”  It was Mother Philippa and another nun.

“I hope we’re not interrupting....  But you’re reading, I see.”

“No, I was thinking;” and glad of the interruption, she let the book fall on her knees.  “Pray come in, Mother Philippa,” and Evelyn rose to detain her.

The nuns entered very shyly.  Evelyn handed them chairs, and as she did so she remarked the tall, angular nun who followed Mother Philippa, and whose face expressed so much energy.

“Good afternoon, Miss Innes.  I hope you slept well last night, and did not find your bed too uncomfortable?”