But next day her humour was different.  She knew quite well that the sooner she went the easier it would be for her to press her father to forgive her, to entrap him into reconciliation.  She had imagined that she could entrap her father into forgiving her by throwing herself into his arms, or with the mere phrase, “Father, I’ve come to ask you how I sing.”  But she had not been able to overcome her aversion to going to Dulwich, and every time the question presented itself a look of distress came into her face.  “If I only knew what he would say when he sees me.  If the first word were over—­the ‘entrance,’” she added, with a smile.

It was hopeless to argue with her, so Owen said that if she did not go before the end of the week it would be better to postpone her visit until after her first appearance.

“But supposing I fail.  I never cared for my Margaret.  Besides, it was mother’s great part.  He’ll think me as bad an artist as I have been a bad daughter.  Owen, dear, have patience with me, I know I’m very weak, but I dread a face of stone.”

Neither spoke for a long while.  Then she said, “If I had only gone to him last year.  You remember he had written me a nice letter, but instead I went away yachting; you wanted to go to Greece.”

“Evelyn, don’t lay the blame on me; you wanted to go too....  I hope that when you do see your father you will say that it was not all my fault.”

“That what was not your fault, dear?”

“Well—­I mean that it was not all my fault that we went away together.  You know that I always liked your father.  I was interested in his ideas; I do not want him to think too badly of me.  You will say something in my favour.  After all, I haven’t treated you badly.  If I didn’t marry you, it was because—­”

“Dearest Owen, you’ve been very good to me.”

He felt that to ask her again to go to see her father would only distress her.  He said instead—­

“I hear a great deal about your father’s choir.  It appears to be quite the fashion to hear high mass at St. Joseph’s.”

“Father always said that Palestrina would draw all London, if properly given.  Last Sunday he gave a mass by Vittoria; I longed to go.  He’ll never forgive me for not going to hear his choir.  It is strange that we both should have succeeded—­he with Palestrina, I with Wagner.”

“Yes, it is strange....  But you promise me that you’ll go and see him as soon as you’ve sung Margaret—­the following day.”

“Yes, dear, I promise you I’ll do that.”

“You’ll send him a box for the first night?”

“He wouldn’t sit in a box.  If he went at all, it would be in some obscure place where he would not be seen.”

“You had better send him a box, a stall and a dress circle, then he can take his choice....  But perhaps you had better not send.  His presence among the audience would only make you nervous.”

“No, on the contrary, his presence would make me sing.”