Her eyes ran through the lines, and her heart said, “How he loves me.”  But the temptation to see him quenched instantly in remembrance of her Communion, and she tore the letter hastily into two pieces, as if by destroying it she destroyed the difficulty it had created for her.  She must not see him.  But how was she to avoid meeting him?  To-morrow be would be waiting in the street for her, and she walked about the room too agitated to think clearly.  He seemed like the devil trying to come between her and God.  She must not see him, of that she was quite sure.  She would lock herself in her room.  But then she would miss Holy Communion, and her heart was set on the Sacrament; the Sacrament alone could give her strength to persevere.  To see him and to hear him would ruin her peace of mind, and peace of mind was essential to the reverent reception of the Sacrament.  It was lost already, or very nearly.  She stopped in her walk, she looked into her soul, she asked herself if any thought had crossed her mind which would render her unfit for Communion ... and on the spot she resolved to go straight to Monsignor and consult him.  He would advise her, he would find some way out of the difficulty.  But it was now six; she could not get to St. Joseph’s before seven.  It was late, but she did not think he would refuse to see her; he would know that it was only a matter of the greatest moment that would bring her to inquire for him at that hour.

It was as she expected.  Monsignor did not receive anyone so late in the evening.

“Yes, I know, but I think Monsignor Mostyn will see me.  Tell him—­tell him that my business does not admit delay.”

She was shown into the same waiting-room.  This seemed to her a favourable presage, and she offered up a prayer that Monsignor would not refuse to see her; everything depended on that.  She listened for his step; twice she was mistaken; at last the door opened.  It was he, and he guessed, before she had time to speak, what had happened.

“One of those men,” he said, “has come again into your life?”

She nodded, and, still unable to speak, she searched in her pocket for their letters.

“I received these letters to-day—­one this morning, the other, Sir Owen’s, just now.  That was why I came.  I felt that I had to see you.”

“Pray sit down, my child, you are agitated.”  He handed her a chair.

“You remember you said I might go to Communion on Sunday, and if I were to meet him to-morrow it would—­there is no temptation, I don’t mean that—­but I do not wish to be reminded of things which you told me I was to try to forget.”

The priest stood reading the letters, and Evelyn sat looking into space, absorbed in the desire to escape from Owen.  All her faith was in Monsignor, and she believed he would be able to save her from Owen’s intrusion.

“I don’t think you need fear anything from Mr. Dean.”

“No, not from him.”