we always shall.  Nothing can come between us; you must be sorry for me, and kiss me, and love me more than ever, for I’ve been very unhappy.  I haven’t told you all I have given up so that I might be a good woman; it is not easy to make the sacrifices I have made, but I am happier now that I have made them.  Ulick—­Ulick must not come here while I’m here, but you’ll want to see him—­I had better go.  Father, dear, it is hard to say all these things.  I’ve done nothing but bring you trouble.  Now I’ve robbed you of your friend.  For I’ve promised not to see Ulick again.  If I stay here, father, he must not come—­I’m ashamed to ask you this, but what am I to do?  I bring trouble.  Later on, perhaps, but for a long while he and I must not meet.”

Mr. Innes stood looking at his daughter, and a peculiar puzzled expression had begun in his eyes, and had spread over his face.  He suddenly shrugged his shoulders; the movement was like Evelyn’s shrug, it expressed the same nervous hopelessness.

“I promised Monsignor that I would not see either.”

“You went to confession—­to him?”

Evelyn nodded.

“But how about Grania?”

“I’m not going to sing Grania.  I’ve left the stage for good.”

“Left the stage?”

“Yes, father, I’ve left the stage, and I could not go back even if Monsignor were to permit me.  But you must not argue with me; I argued with myself until I nearly went mad.  Night after night went by sleepless; I was mad one night, and should have poisoned myself if I had not found my scapular.  But you mustn’t question me.  Some day when it is all far away I’ll tell you the whole story.  I cannot speak of it at present, it is all too near.  Suffice it to say that I have repented, and have come to ask you if you’ll have me back to live with you?”

“You’re my daughter, and you must do as you like.  You were always different from anyone else, I cannot cope with you.  So you have left the stage, left the stage!  What will people think?”

“I could not be a good woman and remain on the stage, that’s what it comes to.”  In spite of the gravity of the scene, a smile trickled round Evelyn’s lips, for she could not help seeing her father like a hen that has hatched out a duckling.  He stood looking at her sadly.  She had come back—­but what new pond would she plunge into?  “I am a very unsatisfactory person, I know that.  I can’t make people happy; but there it is, it can’t be otherwise.  If I don’t sing on the stage, I can sing at your concerts.  Come downstairs and let’s have some music.  We’ve talked enough.

“What shall we play—­a Bach sonata?  Ah, I remember this,” she said, catching sight of the harpsichord part of a suite by J.P.  Rameau, for the harpsichord and viola da gamba.  “Where is the viola da gamba part?”

“In the bottom of that bookcase, I think; don’t you remember it?”

“Well, it is some time since I’ve played it,” she said, smiling, “but I’ll try.”