be none.  Owen is going to provide me with a chaperon—­a lady, he says, in the best society.  I will send you her name next week, as soon as Owen hears from her.  He may hear to-morrow, and if you say that I’m living with her, no one will know anything.  It is deceitful, I know; I told Owen so, but he says that we are not obliged to take the whole world into our confidence.  I don’t like it, but I suppose if one does the things one must put up with the consequences.  Now, I must say good-bye.  I’ve expressed myself badly, but you’ll know what I mean—­that I love you very dearly, that I hope you’ll forgive me, and be glad to see me when I come back, that I shall always be,—­Your affectionate daughter,—­EVELYN.”

She put the letter into an envelope, and was addressing it when Owen came into the room.

“Have you copied the letter, dear?”

She looked at him inquiringly, and he wondered at her embarrassment.

“No,” she said, “I have written quite a different letter.  Yours was very clever, of course, but it was not like me.  I’ve written a stupid little letter, but one which will please father better.”

“I daresay you’re right.  If your father suspected the letter was dictated by me he would resent it.”

“That’s just what I thought.”

“Let me see the letter you have written.”

“No; don’t look at it.  I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Why, dearest?  Because there’s something about me in it?”

“No, indeed.  I would not write anything about you that I wouldn’t show you.  No; what I don’t want you to see is about myself.”

“About yourself!  Well, as you like, don’t show me anything you don’t want to.”

“But I don’t like to have secrets from you, Owen; I hate secrets.”

“One of these days you’ll tell me what you’ve written.  I’m quite satisfied.”  He raised her face and kissed her tenderly, and she felt that she loved him better for his well-assumed indifference.  Then they went downstairs, and she admired her dress in the long glasses on the landings.  She listened to his French as he asked for a stamp.  The courtyard was full of sunlight and carriages.  The pages pushed open the glass doors for them to pass, and, tingling with health and all the happiness and enchantment of love, she walked by his side under the arcade—­glad when, in walking, they came against each other—­swinging her parasol pensively, wondering what happy word to say, a little perplexed that she should have a secret from him, and all the while healthily hungry.  Suddenly she recognised the street as the one where they had dined on Friday night.  He pushed open a white-painted door, and it seemed to her that all the white-aproned waiters advanced to meet her; and the one who drew the table forward that she might pass seemed to fully appreciate the honour of serving them.  A number of hors d’oeuvres were placed before her, but she only ate bread and butter and a radish, until Owen insisted on her trying the filets d’anchois—­the very ones she was originally most averse from.  The sole was cooked very elaborately in a rich brown sauce.  The tiny chicken which followed it was first shown to her in a tin saucepan; then the waiter took it away and carved it at a side table.  She enjoyed the melon which, for her sake, ended instead of beginning the meal, as Owen said it should.