She did not answer, and when he spoke, his voice trembled.

“But it is impossible you can ever marry him now.”

“I am not going to marry Owen.”

“You told him so the other night?”

“Yes, I told him, or very nearly, that I could not marry him.”

“You cannot marry him, you love me....  But why don’t you answer.  What are you thinking of?”

“Only of you, dear....  Let me kiss you again,” and in the embrace he forgot for the moment the inquietude her answer had caused him.

“That is my call,” she said.  “How am I to sing the Liebestod after all this?  How does it begin?”

Ulick sang the opening phrase, and she continued the music for some bars.

“I hope I shall get through it all right.  Then,” she said, “we shall go home together in the brougham.”

At that moment a knock was heard, and Merat entered.  “Mademoiselle, you have no time to lose.”

The call boy’s voice was heard on the stairs, and Evelyn hastened away.  Ulick followed, and the first thing he heard when he got on the stage was Tristan’s death motive.  He listened, not so much to the music itself as to its occult significance regarding Evelyn and himself.  And as Isolde’s grief changed from wild lament for sensual delight to a resigned and noble prayer, the figure of ecstasy broke with a sound as of wings shaking, and Ulick seemed to witness a soul’s transfiguration.  He watched it rising in several ascensions, like a lark’s flight.  For an instant it seemed to float in some divine consummation, then, like the bird, to suddenly quench in the radiance of the sky.  The harps wept farewell over the bodies of the lovers, then all was done, and he stood at the wings listening to the applause.  She came to him at once, as soon as the curtain was down.

“How did I sing it?”

“As well as ever.”

“But you seem sad; what is it?”

“It seemed to mean something—­something, I cannot tell what, something to do with us.”

“No,” she said, looking at him.  “I was only thinking of the music.  Wait for me, dear, I shall not keep you long.”

He walked up and down the stage, and in his hand was a wreath that some admirer had kept for the last.  For excitement he could hardly bid the singers good-night as they passed him.  Now it was Tristan, now Brangaene, now one of the chorus.  The question raged within him.  Was it fated that she should marry him?  So far as he understood the omens she would not; but the readings were obscure, and his will threw itself out in opposition to the influence of Sir Owen.  But he was not certain that that was the direction whence the danger was coming.  He could only exert, however, his will in that direction.  At last he saw her coming down the steep stairs, wrapped in a white opera cloak.  They walked in silence—­she all rapture, but his happiness already clouded.  The brougham was so full of flowers that they, could hardly find place for themselves.  She drew him closer, and said—­