The concert began with a sonata for the harpsichord and the viola da gamba, and then Evelyn sang her two songs.  She sang for Owen, and it seemed to her that she was telling him that she was sorry that it had all happened as it had happened, and that he must go away and be happy with the woman he loved.  She did not think that she sang particularly well, but Owen came and told her that she had sung charmingly, and in their eyes were strange questions and excuses, and an avowal of regret that things were not different.  Slim women in delicious gowns glided up and praised her, but she did not think that they had been as much impressed by her singing as they said; distinguished men were introduced to her, and she felt she had nothing to say to them; and looking round the circle of men and women she saw Owen in the doorway, and noticed that his eyes were restless and constantly wandered in the direction of the tall woman with the red hair, who sat calmly talking to her friends, never noticing him.  He seemed waiting for a look that never came; his glances were furtive and quickly withdrawn, as if he feared he was being watched.  When she got up to leave, Owen came forward and spoke to her, but she barely replied, and left the room alone.  Evelyn saw all this, and she was surprised when Owen came rapidly through the room and sat down by her.  He was painfully absent-minded, and so nervous that he did not seem to know what he was saying:  indeed, that was the only excuse she could make for his remarks.  She hardly recognised this man as the man she had hitherto known.  She hated all his sentiments and his ideas; she thought them horrid, and was glad when her father came to tell her it was time for her to go.

“You didn’t sing well,” he said, as they went home.  “What was the matter with you?”

Owen and the red-haired lady seemed to fall behind this last misfortune.  If she had lost her voice she was no longer herself, and as she went to her teaching she saw herself a music mistress to the end of her days.

But on Sunday morning she came down stairs singing, and Mr. Innes heard a future prima donna in her voice.  Her face lit up, and she said, “Do you think so, dear.  It was unlucky I sang so badly the other night.  I seemed to have no voice at all.”

He told her that there were times when her mother suddenly lost her voice.

“But, father, you are not fit to go out, and can’t go out in that state.”

“What is the matter?” and his hand went to his shirt collar.

“No, your necktie is all right.  Ah! there you’ve untied it; I’ll tie it for you.  It’s your coat that wants brushing.”