that had come over her life?  Was it the mere personal influence of the prelate, or an inherent sense of right and wrong that compelled her to send her lovers away and change her life?  If it were the mere personal influence of Monsignor, her desire of a pure life would not last, and to attain something that was not natural to her she would have ruined her life to no purpose.  Owen’s influence had died in her; how did she know that Monsignor’s would continue even so long?  She had lived an evil life for six years; would she lead a good one for the same time?  If she knew this she would know how to act.  But not only for six years would she have to lead a good life, but till the very end of her life.  If she did not persevere till the very end, all this present struggle and the years of self-denial which she was was about to enter on would be useless.  She might just as well have had a good time all along.  A good time!  That was just it.  She could not have a good time.  She dare not face the agony, the agony which she was at present enduring, so she must go to confession, she must have inward peace.

“So my life is over and done,” she said, “and at seven-and-twenty!”

She twisted in her fingers a letter which she had received that morning from Mademoiselle Helbrun.  She was staying at the Savoy Hotel, and had just returned from Munich.  Evelyn felt she would like to hear about her success as Frika, and how So-and-So had sung Brunnhilde, and the rest of the little gossip about the profession.  She would like to lunch with Louise in the restaurant, at a table by the window.  She would like to see the Thames, and hear things that she might never hear again.  But was it possible that she was never going to join again in the tumult of the Valkyrie?  She remembered her war gear, the white tunic with gold breastplates.  Was it possible that she would never cry their cry from the top of the rocks; and her favourite horse, the horse that Owen had given her for the part, what would become of him?  What would become of her jewellery, of her house, of her fame, of everything?  She attempted a last stand against her conscience.  Her scruples were imaginary.  Owen had said it could not matter to God whether she kissed him or not.  But she did not pursue this train of reasoning.  She felt it to be wrong.  But she could not confess—­she could not explain everything, and again she was struck with a sort of mental paralysis.  Why Monsignor—­why not another priest?  No, not another.  She could not say why, but not another; he was the one.  But perhaps she only wanted to tell someone, a woman—­Louise, for instance.  If she were to tell Louise—­she put the idea out of mind, feeling it to be vain, and trying to think that there was no need why she should leave the stage, and uncertain whether she should stay on the stage if Monsignor forbade her, or if she wanted to even if he allowed her, she put on her hat and went to lunch with Louise.  It would help her to pass the time; it would save her from thinking.  She must speak to someone.  But the Savoy was on her way to St. Joseph’s.  It was half-way there.  A little overcome by the coincidence, she told her servant to call a hansom, and as she drove to the hotel she wondered why she had thought of going to see Louise.