It seemed to her that she remembered it all wonderfully well, and she was surprised how every phrase came up correctly under her bow.  But she stopped suddenly.

“I don’t remember what comes next.”

Mr. Innes played the phrase, she played it after him, but she broke down a little further on, and it took some time to find the music.  “No, not in that shelf,” cried Mr. Innes, “the next one; not that volume, the next.”

“Ah, yes, I remember the volume, about the middle?” When she found the place she said, “Oh, yes, of course,” and he answered—­

“Ah, it seems simple enough now,” and they went on together to the end.

“I’ve not lost much of my playing, have I?”

“A little stiffness, perhaps, and you’ve lost your sense of the old forms.  Now let’s play this rondeau of Marais.”

When they had finished, it was dinner-time, and after dinner they had more music.  Before going upstairs, Evelyn asked Agnes if there was any ink in her room.  She had to ask her father for some writing paper, she would have avoided doing so if she could have helped it.  She feared he would guess that she was writing to her lovers.  She smiled—­so odd did her scruples seem to her—­she was writing to send them away.  Her father’s house was surely the right place.  If it were to make appointments, that would be different.  It was long past midnight when she read over her letter to Owen.

“Dear Owen,—­A great deal has happened since we last met, and I am convinced that it would be unwise for me to see you in three months as I promised.  My confessor is of the same opinion; he thinks three months too soon, and I must obey him.  I have taken the step which I hope you will take some day, for you too are a Catholic.  In going to confession and resolving not to see you again, I had a long struggle with my feelings; but God gave me grace to overcome them.  You know me well enough by this time, and can have no doubt that I could not live with you again as your mistress, and as I do not feel that I could marry you, no course is open to me but to beg of you not to write to me, or to try to see me.  Owen, I feel that all this is horrid, that I am horrid looked at from your side.  I cannot seem anything else.  I hate it all, but it has to be done.  Perhaps one of these days you will see things as I do.

“I owe you—­I do not know how much, but I owe you a great deal of money.  I remember saying that Savelli’s lessons were to be considered as a debt, also the expenses of the house in the Rue Balzac.  You never would tell me what the rent of that house was, but as well as I can calculate, I owe you a thousand pounds for that year in Paris.” (Evelyn paused.  “It must be,” she thought, “much more, but it would be difficult for me to pay more.”)