She was shown into a small room; its one window was so high up on the wall that the light was dim in the room, though outside there was brilliant sunshine.  The sadness of the little room struck cold upon her, and she noticed the little space of floor covered with cocoa-nut matting, and how it grated under the feet.  The furniture was a polished oak table, with six chairs to match.  A pious print hung on each wall.  One was St. Monica and St. Augustine, and the rapt expression of their faces reminded her that she might be bartering a divine inheritance for a coarse pleasure that left but regret in the heart.  And it was in such heartsick humour that Monsignor found her.  He seemed to assume that she needed his help, and the tender solicitude with which he wished to come to her aid was in itself a consolation.  She was already an incipient penitent as she told him of her project to bring an orchestra at her own expense to Wimbledon, and give the forest murmurs with the Bird Song from “Siegfried.”  Monsignor left everything to her; he placed himself unreservedly in her hands.  After a long silence she pushed a cheque for fifty pounds across the table, begging him not to mention the name of the giver.  She was singing for them, that was sufficient obligation.  He approved of her delicacy of feeling, thanked her for her generosity, and the business of the interview seemed ended.

“I’m so much obliged to you, Monsignor Mostyn, for having come to me, for having given me an opportunity of doing some good with my money.  Hitherto, I’m ashamed to say, I’ve spent it all on myself.  It has often seemed to me intolerably selfish, and I often felt that I must do something, only I did not know what to do.”

Then, feeling that she must take him into her confidence, she asked him what proportion of our income we should devote to charity.  He said it was impossible to fix a precise sum, but he knew many deserving cases, and offered to advise her in the distribution of whatever money she might decide to spend in charity.  Suddenly his manner changed; he even seemed to wish her to stay, and the conversation turned back to music.  The conversation was mundane as possible, and it was only now and then, by some slight allusion to the Church, that he reminded Evelyn, and perchance himself, that the essential must be distinguished from the circumstantial.

Again and again the temptation rose up, it seemed to look out from her very eyes, and she was so conscious of this irresistible desire to speak to him of herself that she no longer heard him, and hardly saw the blank wall with the pious print upon it.

“I have not told you, Monsignor,” she said at last, “that I am leaving the stage.”

She knew that he must ask her what had induced her to think of taking so important a step, and then she would have an opportunity of asking his opinion of the stage.  Of course neither Ulick’s nor Owen’s name would be mentioned.