act of “Siegfried” and the “Dusk of the Gods,” which were not composed till some years later.  “Ah, that wonderful later style!  That scale of half-notes!  Flats and sharps introduced into every bar; C, C sharp; D, D sharp; E, F, F sharp; G, G sharp; A, B flat, B, C. In that scale, or what would seem to be that scale, he balances himself like an acrobat, springing on to the desired key without preparation,” and so on until the old stag was interrupted by a friend, a lady who had just recognised him.  As she squeezed past, she stopped to tell him that Wagner had spoiled her for all other music.  She had been to hear Beethoven’s “Eroica” Symphony once more, but it had seemed to her like a pious book.

Evelyn sang “Elsa’s Dream,” “Elizabeth’s Prayer” and the “Liebestod,” and when she was recalled at the end of the concert, she sang Senta’s ballad as a bonne bouche, something that the audience had not expected, and would send her friends away more than ever pleased with her.

Her father had not been able to come—­that was a disappointment—­but Ulick had accompanied her beautifully, following her voice, making the most of it at every moment.  When she left the platform, she took both his hands and thanked him.  She loved him in that instant as a musician and as a mistress.  But the joy of the moment, the ecstasy of admiration, was interrupted by Monsignor Mostyn and Father Daly.  They too wished to thank her.  In his courtly manner, Monsignor told her of the pleasure her singing had given him.  But when Father Daly mentioned that the nuns expected her to tea, her courage seemed to slip away.  The idea of a convent frightened her, and she tried to excuse herself, arguing that she had to go back to London.

“If you’re engaged for dinner, I’m afraid there will not be time,” Monsignor said.  She looked up, and, meeting his eyes, did not dare to lie to him.

“No; I’m not dining out, but I promised to take Mr. Dean back in my carriage.”

“Mr. Dean will, I’m sure, not mind waiting.”

It seemed to Evelyn that Monsignor suspected her relations with Ulick, and to refuse to go to the convent, she thought, would only confirm him in his suspicions.  So she accepted the invitation abruptly, and when they turned to go, she said—­

“My carriage is here; I’ll drive you,” and, at the same moment, she remembered that Ulick was waiting.  But she felt that she could not drive back to London with him after leaving the convent, and she hoped that Monsignor would not correctly interpret the disappointment which was plain upon his face.  No; he must go back by train—­no, there would be no use his calling that evening at Park Lane.