“No, I think I’ll wait in the music-room.  I’m Miss Innes; Mr. Innes is my father.”

“What, miss, are you the great singer?”

“I suppose I am.”

“Do you know, miss, something told me that you was.  The moment I saw the carriage, I said, “Here she is; this is her for certain.”  Will you come this way, miss?  I’ll run and get the key.”

“And who was it,” Evelyn said, “that told you I was a singer?”

“Lor’! miss, didn’t half Dulwich go to hear you sing at the opera?”

“Did you?”

“No, I didn’t go, Miss, but I heard Mr. Dean and your father talking of you.  I’ve read about you in the papers; only this morning there was a long piece.”

“If father talks of me he’ll forgive me,” thought Evelyn.  The girl’s wonderment made her smile, and she said—­

“But you’ve not told me your name.”

“My name is Agnes, miss.”

“Have you been long with my father?  When I left, Margaret—­”

“Ah! she’s dead, miss.  I came to your father the day after the funeral.”

Evelyn walked up the room, overcome by the eternal absence of something which had hitherto been part of her life.  For Margaret took her back to the time her mother was alive; farther back still—­to the very beginning of her life.  She had always reckoned on Margaret....  So Margaret was dead.  Margaret would never know of this meeting.  Margaret might have helped her.  Poor Margaret!  At that moment she caught sight of her mother’s eyes.  They seemed to watch her; she seemed to know all about Owen, and afraid of the haunting, reproving look, Evelyn studied the long oval face and the small brown eyes so unlike hers.  One thing only she had inherited from her mother—­her voice.  She had certainly not inherited her conduct from her mother; her mother was one of the few great artistes against whom nothing could be said.  Her mother was a good woman....  What did she think of her daughter?  And seeing her cold, narrow face, she feared her mother would regard her conduct even more severely than her father....  “But if she had lived I should have had no occasion to go away with Owen.”  She wondered.  At the bottom of her heart she knew that Owen was as much as anything else a necessity in her life....  She moved about the room and wished the hands of the clock could be advanced a couple of hours, for then the terrible scene with her father would be over.  If he could only forgive her at once, and not make her miserable with reproaches, they could have such a pleasant evening.

In this room her past life was blown about her like spray about a rock.  She remembered the days when she went to London with her father to give lessons; the miserable winter when she lost her pupils....  How she had waited in this room for her father to come back to dinner; the faintness of those hungry hours; worse still, that yearning for love.  She must have died if she had not gone away.  If it