she had been unfaithful to him with Owen.  Should she send away Owen and marry Ulick, or would it be better to send away Ulick and marry Owen—­if he would marry her after he had heard her confession?  It was unendurable to have to tell lies all day long—­yes, all day long—­of one sort or another.  She ought to send them both away....  But could she remain on the stage without a lover?  Could she go to Bayreuth by herself?  Could she give up the stage?  And then?

She awoke in a different mood—­at least, it seemed to her that her mood was different.  She was not thinking of Owen, of the lies she had told him; and she could talk gaily with Ulick about the concert she had promised to sing at.  She seemed inclined to take the whole responsibility of this concert upon her own shoulders.  As Ulick said, it was impossible for her to take a small part in any concert.

They were driving in Richmond Park, not far from the convent.  The autumn-tinted landscape, the vicissitudes of the woods, and the plaintive air brought a tender yearning into her mood, and she contrasted the lives of those poor, holy women with her own life.  Ulick did not intrude himself; he sat silent by her, and she thought of Monsignor.  Sometimes he was no more than a little shadow in the background of her mind; but he was never wholly absent, and that day all matters were unconsciously referred to him.  She was curious to know what his opinions were of the stage; and as they returned home in the short, luminous autumn evening, she seemed to discover suddenly the fact that she was no longer as much interested in the stage as she used to be.  She even thought that she would not greatly care if she never sang on the stage again.  Last night she had put the thought aside as if it were madness, to-day it seemed almost natural.  Thinking of the poor sisters who lived in prayer and poverty on the edge of the common, she remembered that her life was given up to the portrayal of sensual emotion on the stage.  She remembered the fierce egotism of the stage—­an egotism which pursued her into every corner of her life.  Compared with the lives of the poor sisters who had renounced all that was base in them, her life was very base indeed.  In her stage life she was an agent of the sensual passion, not only with her voice, but with her arms, her neck and hair, and every expression of her face, and it was the craving of the music that had thrown her into Ulick’s arms.  If it had subjugated her, how much more would it subjugate and hold within its sensual persuasion the ignorant listener—­the listener who would perceive in the music nothing but its sensuality.  Why had the Church not placed stage life under the ban of mortal sin?  It would have done so if it knew what stage life was, and must always be.  She then wondered what Monsignor thought of the stage, and from the moment her curiosity was engaged on this point it did not cease to trouble her till it brought her to the door of the presbytery.  The ostensible object of her visit was to make certain proposals to Monsignor regarding the music she was to sing at the concert.