He came to see them the following day.  Her father was there all the time, but to hear and see him was almost enough for her.  She seemed to lose sight of everything and to be engulfed in her own joy.  When he had gone away she remembered the smile which had lit up some pretty thought of her; her ears were full of his voice, and she heard the lilt that charmed her whenever she pleased.  Then she asked herself the meaning of some casual remark, and her mind repeated all he had said like a phonograph.  She already knew his habitual turns of speech; they had begun to appear in her own conversation, and all that was not connected with him lost interest for her.  Once or twice during the week she went to bed early so that she might not fancy her father was looking at her while she thought of Owen.

Owen called at the end of the week—­the Wagnerian Review always supplied him with sufficient excuse for a visit—­but he had to spend his visit in discussing the text of a Greek hymn which he had seen disinterred in Greece.  She was sorry for him, sorrier than she was for herself, for she could always find him in her thoughts....  She wondered if he could find her as vividly in his thoughts as she settled herself (the next day was Sunday) in the corner of her pew, resolved from the beginning not to hear a word of the sermon, but to think of Owen the whole time.  She wanted to hear why he had left England so suddenly, and why he had returned so suddenly.  She was sure that she and the red-haired lady were the cause of one or the other, and that neither was the cause of both.  These two facts served for a warp upon which she could weave endless mental embroideries, tales as real as the tales of old tapestry, tales of love and jealousy, and unexpected meetings, in which she and Owen and the red-haired lady met and re-met.  Whilst Father Railston was preaching, these tales flowed on and on, subtle as silk, illusive as evening tinted clouds; and it was not until she had exhausted her fancy, and Owen had made one more fruitless visit to Dulwich, that she began to scheme how she might see him alone.  There was so much that they could only talk about if they were alone; and then she wanted so much to hear the story of the red-haired lady.  If she did not contrive an opportunity for being with him alone, she might never hear why he had left England for a trip round the world, and had returned suddenly from the Mediterranean.  She felt that, however difficult and however wrong it might be, she must find this opportunity.  She thought of asking him the hour of the train by which he generally came to Dulwich, so that she might meet him in the station.  Other schemes came into her mind, but she could think of nothing that was just right.

But one day, as she was running to post a letter, she saw Owen, more beautifully dressed than ever, coming toward her.  Her feet and her heart stood still, for she wore her old morning gown and a pair of old house slippers.  But he had already seen her and was lifting his hat, and with easy effrontery he told her that he had come to Dulwich to consult her father about the Greek hymn.