“Some afternoon at the end of the week.  We’re friends—­I feel that we are.  You are father’s friend; you were his friend when I was away.  Tell me if he missed me very much.  Tell me about him.  I have been longing to ask you all the time.  What is he doing?  I have heard about his choir.  He has got some wonderful treble voices.”

“He is very busy now rehearsing the ‘Missa Brevis.’  It will be given next Sunday.  It will be splendidly done ...  You ought to come to hear it.”

“I should like to, of course, but I am not certain that I shall not be able to go to St. Joseph’s next Sunday.  How did you and father become acquainted?”

“Through an article I wrote about the music of St. Joseph’s.  Mr. Innes said that it was written by a musician, and he wrote to the paper.”

“Asking you to come to see him?”

“Yes.  Your father was the first friend I made in London.”

“And that was some years ago?”

“About four years ago.  I had come over from Ireland with a few pounds in my pocket, and a portmanteau full of music, which I soon found no one wanted.”

“You had written music before you had met father?”

“Yes, I was organist at St. Patrick’s in Dublin for nearly three years.  There’s no one like your father, Miss Innes.”

“No one, is there?” she replied enthusiastically.  “There’s no one like him.  I’m so glad you are friends.  You see him nearly every day, and you show him all your music.”  Then after a pause, she said, “Tell me, did he miss me very much?”

“Yes, he missed you, of course.  But he felt that you were not wholly to blame.”

“And you took my place.  I can see it all.  It was father and son, instead of father and daughter.  How well you must have got on together.  What talks you must have had.”

The silence was confidential, and though they both were thinking of Mr. Innes, they seemed to become intimately aware of each other.

“But may I venture to advise you?”

“Yes.  What?”

“I’m sure you ought to go and see him, or at least write to him saying you’d like to see him.”

“I know—­I know—­I must go.  He’ll forgive me; he must forgive me.  But I wish it were over.  I’m afraid you think me very cowardly.  You will not say you have seen me.  You promise me to say nothing.”

Ulick gave her the required promise, and she asked him again to come to see her.

“I want you,” she said, “to go through Isolde’s music with me.”

“Do you think I can tell you anything about the music you don’t know already?”

“Yes, I think you can.  You tell me things about myself that I did not know.  I hardly knew that I acted as you describe in Margaret.  I hope I did, for I seemed very good in your article.  I read it over again this morning in bed.  But tell me, did father come?”

“You must not press me to answer that question.  My advice to you is to go and see your father.  He will tell you what he thought of your singing if he came here....  The act is over,” he said suddenly, and he seemed glad of the interruption.  “I wonder what your Elizabeth will be like?”