that if he had written more passionately she would have taken the train and gone to him.  She had sent Owen away on account of scruples of conscience, and a life of chastity extended indefinitely before her.  But who was this woman to whom Ulick had shown his music, and who had said that if anything happened to prevent Evelyn Innes from singing the part, she hoped that Ulick would give it to her?  Why should she have thought that something would happen to prevent Evelyn Innes from creating Grania?  Had Ulick suggested it to her?  But how could Ulick know?  She tried to think if she had ever told him she was tired of the stage.  Perhaps he had consulted the stars and had divined her future.  This woman seemed to know that something might happen, and something was happening, there could be no doubt about that.

There was no doubt that she was tired of the stage, but perhaps that was on account of hard work, perhaps she required a rest; in two or three months she might return eagerly to the study of Grania; for the sake of Ulick, she might remain on the stage till she had established the success of his opera.  This might be if she and Ulick were not lovers.  She had promised Owen that she would not keep him for her lover, but that did not mean that she would not sing his opera.  If she didn’t, another woman would, some wretched singer who did not understand the music, and it would be a failure.  Ulick would hate her; he would believe that her refusal to sing his opera was a vile plan to do him an injury.  He did not know what conscience meant—­he only understood the legends and the Gods!  She laughed, and a moment afterwards was submerged in difficulties.  Her conduct would seem more incomprehensible to him than it did to Owen; she did not wish him to hate her, but he would hate her, and to avoid seeing her he would not go to Dowlands, and so she would rob her father of his friend—­the friend who had kept him company when she deserted him.  There was another alternative.  If she liked him well enough to be his mistress, she should like him well enough to be his wife.  But knowing that she would not marry him, she took up her other letters and began reading them.

Lady Duckle liked Homburg; everyone was there, and she hoped Evelyn would not be detained in London much longer.  The Duke of Berwick had proposed to Miss Beale, and Lady Mersey was always about with young Mr. So-and-So.  Evelyn didn’t read it all.  She lay back thinking, for this letter, about things that interested her no longer, had led her thoughts back to self, and she inquired why in the midst of all her enjoyments she had felt that her real life was elsewhere, why she had always known that sooner or later the hour would come when she would leave the things which she enjoyed so intensely.  The idea of departure had never quite died down in her, and she had always known that she would be one day quite a different woman.  She had often had glimpses of her future self and of her future life, but the