“’I will not ask you to think that I have acted otherwise than wrongly, for, of course, as a father you can hold no other opinion, but being also a clever man, an artist, you will perhaps be inclined to admit that my wrong-doing is not so irreparable a wrong-doing as it might have been in other and easily imagined circumstances.’” Full stop.

“You’ve got that—­’so irreparable a wrong-doing as it might have been in other and easily imagined circumstances’?”

“Yes.”

“’Father dear, you know that if I had remained in Dulwich my voice would have been wasted, not through my fault or yours, but through the fault of circumstances.’

“You have got circumstances a few lines higher up, so put ’through the fault of fate.’”

“Father will never believe that I wrote this letter.”

“That doesn’t matter—­the truth is the truth from whoever it comes.”

“’We should have gone on deceiving ourselves, or trying to deceive ourselves, hoping as soon as the concerts paid that I should go abroad with a proper chaperon.  You know, father dear, how we used to talk, both knowing well that no such thing could be.  The years would have slipped by, and at five-and-thirty, when it would have been too late, I should have found myself exactly where I was when mother died.  You would have reproached yourself, you would have suffered remorse, we should have both been miserable; whereas now I hope that we shall both be happy.  You will bring about a revival of Palestrina, and I shall sing opera.  Be reasonable, father, and remember that it had to be.  Write to me if you can; to hear from you will make me very happy.  But do not try to seek me out and endeavour to induce me to return home.  Any meeting between us now would merely mean intolerable suffering to both of us, and it would serve no purpose whatever.  A little later, when I have succeeded, when I am a great singer, I will come and see you, that is to say if you will see me.  Meanwhile; for a year or two we had better not meet, but I’ll write constantly, and shall look forward to your letters.  Again, my dear father, I beseech you to be reasonable; everything will come right in the end.  I will not conceal from you the fact that Sir Owen Asher advised me to this step.  He is very fond of me, and is determined to help me in every way.  When he brings me back to England a great singer, he hopes you will try to look on his fault with as much leniency as may be.  He asks me to warn you against speaking of him in connection with me, for any accusation brought against him will injure me.  He intends to provide me with a proper chaperon.  I need not mention her name; suffice it to say that she is a very grand lady, so appearances will be preserved.  No one need know anything for certain if you do not tell them.  If you will promise to do this, I will send the name of the lady with whom I am going to live.  You can say that I am living with her; her name will be a sufficient cloak—­everyone will be satisfied.  Interference can be productive of no good, remember that; let things take their natural course, and they will come right in the end.  If you decide to do as I ask you, write at once to me, and address your letter to 31 Rue Faubourg St Honore, care of Monsieur Blanco.—­Always, dear father, Your affectionate daughter,—­EVELYN INNES.’”