had been ill at ease and nervous—­of what she did not know—­of someone behind her, of someone lurking round her.  She argued that she would not have had those feelings if there was not a reason.  When she had them, something always happened to her, and nothing could convince her that London was not the turning-point in her fortune.  The carriage seemed to be going very fast; they were already in Victoria Street; she cried to the coachman not to drive so fast, he answered that he must drive at that pace if he was to get there by eleven....  Surely her father would not refuse to see her.  He could not, he would not take her by the shoulders and turn her out of the house—­the house she had known all her life.  Oh, good heavens! if he did, what would happen afterwards?  She could not go back to Owen and sing operas at Covent Garden, and her soul wailed like a child and a deadly terror of her father came upon her.  It might be her destiny never to speak to him again!  That fate had been the fate of other women.  Why should it not be hers?  He might not send for her when he was dying, and if she were dying he might not come to her; and after death, would she see him?  Would they then be reconciled?  If she did not see her father in this world, she would never see him, for she had promised Owen to believe in oblivion, and she thought she did believe in nothing; but she felt now that she must say her prayers, she must pray that her father might forgive her.  It might be absurd, but she felt that a prayer would ease her mind.  It was dreadfully hypocritical to pray to a God one didn’t believe in.  There was no sense in it, nor was there much sense in much else one did....  She had promised Owen not to pray, and it was a sort of blasphemy to say prayers and lead a life of sin.  She did not like to break her promise to Owen.  She must make up her mind....  Her father might be at St. Joseph’s! and it was with a sense of refreshing delight that she called the coachman and gave the order.  The chestnuts were prancing like greyhounds amid heavy drays and clumsy, bear-like horses; the coachman was trying to hold them in and to understand the policeman, who shouted the way to him from the edge of the pavement.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

But she ought not to go to St. Joseph’s.  She had promised Owen to avoid churches, priests—­all that reminded her of religion.  He had begged that until she was firm in her agnosticism she should not expose herself to influences which could but result in mental distress, and without any practical issue unless to separate them.  She had escaped once; next time he might find it more difficult to win her back.  How kind he was.  He had not said a word about his own suffering.