“Lor’! yes, miss.”

“And a sole?”

“Yes, miss; but in ordering, miss, you must think of to-morrow.  You won’t like to have a nice dinner to-night and a bit of hashed mutton to-morrow.”

“I’ll order sufficient.  You’ve got no wine, I suppose?”

“No, we’ve no wine, miss, only draught beer.”

“I’ll tell my coachman to go and fetch the things at once.”

When she returned to the music-room, Agnes asked her if she was going to stop the night.

“Because I should have to get your rooms ready, miss.”

“That I can’t tell, Agnes....  I don’t think so....  You won’t tell my father I’m here when you let him in?...  I want it to be a surprise.”

“I won’t say nothing, miss.  I’ll leave him to find it out.”

Evelyn felt that the girl must have guessed her story, must have perceived in her the repentant daughter—­the erring daughter returned home.  Everything pointed to that fact.  Well, it couldn’t be helped if she had.

“If my father will only forgive me; if that first dreadful scene were only over, we could have an enchanting evening together.”

She was too nervous to seek out a volume of Bach and let her fingers run over the keys; she played anything that came into her head, sometimes she stopped to listen.  At last there came a knock, and her heart told her it was his.  In another moment he would be in the room.  But seeing her he stopped, and, without a word, he went to a table and began untying a parcel of music.

“Father, I’ve come to see you....  You don’t answer.  Father, are you not going to speak to me?  I’ve been longing to see you, and now—­”

“If you had wanted to see me, you’d have come a month ago.”

“I was not in London a month ago.”

“Well, three weeks ago.”

“I ought to have done so, but I had no courage.  I could only see you looking at me as you are looking now.  Forgive me, father....  I’m your only daughter; she’s full of failings, but she has never ceased to love you.”

He sat at the table fumbling with the string that had tied the parcel he had brought in, and she stood looking at him, unable to speak.  She seemed to have said all there was to say, and wished she could throw herself at his feet; but she could not, something held her back.  She prayed for tears, but her eyes remained dry; her mouth was dry, and a flame seemed to burn behind her eyes.  She could only think that this might be the last time she would see him.  The silence seemed a great while.  She repeated her words, “I had not the courage to come before.”  At the sound of her voice she remembered that she must speak to him at once of his choir, and so take their thoughts from painful reminiscence.

“I went to St. Joseph’s on Thursday, but you weren’t there.  You gave Vittoria’s mass last Sunday.  I started to go, but I had to turn back.”

She had not gone to hear her father’s choir, because she could not resist Lady Ascott’s invitation, and no more than the invitation could she resist the lie; she had striven against it, but in spite of herself it had forced itself through her lips, and now her father seemed to have some inkling of the truth, for he said—­