Evelyn hoped he would tell her that she had sung better than she had sung on the fatal night of the party in Berkeley Square.  This was what she wished him to say, and she wished it partly because she knew that that was what he would say.  That party had not yet been spoken of, but she felt sure it would be, for it seemed a decisive point in their lives.

She was not playing in the next two pieces—­fantasies for treble and tenor viols—­and she sat in the background, catching glimpses of Owen between the hands and the heads of the viol players, and over the rims of their, instruments.  She sat apart, not hearing a note of the music, absorbed in herself, a little exaltation afloat in her brain, her flesh glowing as in the warmth of an inward fire, her whole instinct telling her that Owen had not come back for the red-haired woman; he had gone away for her, perhaps, but he had not come back for her—­of that she was sure In spite of herself, the conviction was forced upon her that the future was for her.  The red-haired lady was a past which he would tell her some day, and that day she knew to be not very far distant.

The programme was divided into two parts, and after the first, there was a little interval during which tea and cake were handed round.  Evelyn helped to hand them round, and when she held the cake tray to Owen, she raised her eyes and they looked at each other, and in that interval it almost seemed as if they kissed each other.

They met again at the end of the concert, and she waited anxiously for him to speak.  He told her, as she expected he would, that she had sung to-night much better than she had sung at his party.  But they were surrounded by people seeking their coats and umbrellas; it was impossible to speak without being overheard; he had told her that she had sung to his satisfaction; that was sufficient, and they felt that all had been said, and that they understood each other perfectly.

As she lay in bed, the thought came that he might write to her a letter asking her to meet him, to keep an appointment.  But she would have to refuse, it would be wrong; but it was not wrong to think about it.  He would be there before her; the moment he saw her coming his eyes would light up in a smile, and they would walk on together some little way without speaking.  Then he would say, “Dearest, there will be a carriage waiting at the corner of the road”—­and then?  She could see his face and his tall, thin figure, she could picture it all so distinctly that it was almost the same as if it were happening.  All he said, as well as all she said, kept pouring in upon her brain without a missing word, and she hugged herself in the delight of these imaginings, and the hours went by without weariness for her.  She lay, her arms folded, thinking, thinking, seeing him through the darkness.