Leaving this letter with directions that it should be posted at once, weary, and with her brain as clear as crystal, she threw herself upon her bed.  Folding her arms, she closed her eyes, and strove to banish thoughts of Owen and the confession she was to make that afternoon.  But when sleep gathered about her eyes, the memory of past sins, at first dense, then with greater clearness, shone through, and the traitor sleep moved away.  Or she would suddenly find herself in the middle of the interview, the entire dialogue standing clear cut in her brain, she could almost see the punctuation of every sentence.  Once more she counted the sheep coming through the gate; she counted and counted, until her imagination failed her, and in spite of herself, her eyes opened upon the dreaded room.  She heard the clock strike nine.  Merat would knock at her door in another half-hour, and she lay waiting, fearing her arrival.  But at last her face grew quieter, she seemed to see Monsignor vaguely, she could not tell where nor how he had come to her, but she heard him saying distinctly that she must never sing Isolde again.  He seemed to bar her way to the stage, and the music that was to bring her on sounded in her ears, yet she could see the shape of her room and its furniture.  A knock came at the door, and she was surprised to find that she had been asleep.

Her brain was a ferment; it seemed as if it were about to fall out of her head; she feared the day, its meal times and the long hours of morning and evening sunshine.  The idea of the coming interview with Owen was intolerable.  Her brain was splitting, she could not think of what she would say.  But her letter had gone!  After breakfast she felt a little rested, and went into the park and remained there till lunch time, dimly aware of the open air, the waving of branches, the sound of human voices.  Beyond these, and much more distinct, was a vision of her evil life, and the cold, stern face of the priest watching her.  She wandered about, and then hastened back to Park Lane.  Owen had been.  He had left word that he would call again about three o’clock.  He would have stayed, but had an engagement to lunch with friends.  She lunched alone, and was sitting on the corner of the sofa, heavy-eyed and weary, but determined to be true to her resolutions, when the servant announced him.  He came in hurriedly, his hat in his hand, and his eyes went at once to where she was sitting.  He saw she was looking ill, but there were more important matters to speak of.

“I came at once, the moment I got your letter.  I should have waited, but I was lunching with Lady Merrington.  Such terribly boring people were there.  It was all I could do to prevent myself from rushing out of the room.  But, Evelyn, what are you determined to tell me?  I thought we parted good friends yesterday.  You have been thinking it over....  You’re going to send me away.”  He sat beside her, he held his hat in both hands, and looked perplexed and worried.  “But, Evelyn”—­she sat like a figure of stone, there was no colour in her cheeks nor any expression in her eyes or mouth—­“Evelyn, I am afraid you are ill, you are pale as a ghost.”