her father; he had said, “Mr. Innes is my greatest friend.”  He loved her father, she could see that, but she had not dared to question him.  Talking to Owen was like the sunshine—­the earth and only the earth was visible—­whereas talking to Ulick was like the twilight through which the stars were shining.  Dreams were to him the true realities; externals he accepted as other people accepted dreams—­with diffidence.  Evelyn laughed, much amused by herself and Ulick, and she laughed as she thought of his fixed and averted look as he related the tales of bards and warriors.  Every now and then his dark eyes would light up with gleams of sunny humour; he probably believed that the legends contained certain eternal truths, and these he was shaping into operas.  He was the most interesting young man she had met this long while.

He had been about to tell her why he had recanted his Wagnerian faith when they had been interrupted by Owen....  She could conceive nothing more interesting than the recantation by a man of genius of the ideas that had first inspired him.  His opera had been accepted, and would be produced if she undertook the principal part.  Why should she not?  They could both help each other.  Truly, he was the person with whom she could study Isolde, and she imagined the flood of new light he would throw upon it.  Her head drowsed on the pillow, and she dreamed the wonderful things he would tell her.  But as she drowsed she thought of the article he had written about her Margaret, and it was the desire to read it again that awoke her.  Stretching out her hand, she took it from the table at her bedside and began reading.  He liked the dull green dress she wore in the first act; and the long braids of golden hair which he admired were her own.  He had mentioned them and the dark velvet cape, which he could not remember whether she wore or carried.  As a matter of fact, she carried it on her arm.  His forgetfulness on this point seemed to her charming, and she smiled with pleasure.  He said that she made good use of the cape in the next act, and she was glad that he had perceived that.

Like every other Margaret, her prayer-book was in her hand when she first met Faust; but she dropped it as she saw him, and while she shyly and sweetly sang that she was neither a lady nor a beauty, she stooped and with some embarrassment picked up the book.  She passed on, and did not stop to utter a mechanical cry when she saw Mephistopheles, and then run away.  She hesitated a moment; Mephistopheles was not in sight, but Faust was just behind her, and over the face of Margaret flashed the thought, “What a charming—­what a lovely young man!  I think I’ll stop a little longer, and possibly he’ll say something more.  But no—­after all—­perhaps I’d better not,” and, with a little sigh of regret, she turned and went, at first quietly and then more quickly, as though fearful of being tempted to change her mind.