“I’m afraid I do little to amuse you.”

“You do a great deal—­you lend me books.  I never cared to read, now I’m very fond of reading—­and I think more.”

“Of what do you think?”

“You see, I never met anyone like you before.  You’ve travelled; you’ve seen everything; you know everything and everyone.  When you come I seem to see in you all the grand world of fashion.”

“Which you used to see far away as in a dream?”

“No, the world of fashion I did not think of till I saw you.  Since you came back I have thought of it a little.  You seem to express it somehow in your look and dress; and the men who nodded to you in Piccadilly, and the women who bowed to you, all wore the same look, and when they spoke they seemed to know all about you—­where you were last summer, and where you are going to spend this autumn.  Their friends are your friends; you’re all like one family.”

“You’re very observant.  I never noticed the things you speak of, but no doubt it is so.  But society is ready to receive you; society, believe me, is most anxious for you.”

After some pause she heard him say—­

“But you must not delay to go abroad and study.”

“Tell me, do you think the concerts will ever pay?”

“No, not in the sense of your requirements.  Evelyn, since you ask me, I must speak the truth.  Those concerts may come to pay their expenses, with a little over, but it is the veriest delusion to imagine that they will bring enough money to take you and your father abroad.  Moreover, your father would have to resign his position at St. Joseph’s, where he is required; there his mission is.  It is painful for me to tell you these things, but I cannot see you waste your life.”

“What you say is quite true....  I’ve known it all along.”

“Only you have shut your eyes to it.”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“Don’t look so frightened, Evelyn.  It was better that you should be brought face to face with the truth.  You’ll have to go abroad and study.”

“And my father!  Don’t advise me to leave him.  I couldn’t do that.”

“Why make my task more difficult than it is?  I wish to be honest.  I should speak just the same, believe me, if your father were present.  Is not our first duty towards ourselves?  The rest is vague and uncertain, the development of our own faculties is, after all, that which is most sure....  I’m uttering no paradox when I say that we serve others best by considering our own interests.  Let us suppose that you sacrifice yourself, that you dedicate your life to your father, that you do all that conventional morality says you should do.  You look after his house, you sing at his concerts, you give music lessons.  Ten, fifteen years pass, and then, remembering what might have been, but what is no longer possible, you forgive him, and he, overcome with remorse for the wrong he did you, sinks into the grave broken-hearted.”