She asked him what he was thinking about, and he answered of the happiness he had begun to feel was in store for them.

“What happiness?” she asked; and he answered—­

“The happiness of seeing each other constantly—­the happiness of lovers.  Now we must see each other more often.”

“How often?  Every day?”

He wondered what was the exact colour of her eyes, and he pressed her to answer.  At last she said—­

“You cannot come here oftener than you do at present.  I’m deceiving father about these lessons.  What will you do if he asks you to play to him?  What excuse will you give?  You daren’t attempt the simplest exercise, you haven’t got over the difference of the bowing; you’d play false notes all the time.”

“Yes,” he said; “I’ve not made much progress, have I?”

“No, you haven’t; but that isn’t my fault.”

“But the days I don’t see you seem so long!”

“Do you think they do not seem long to me?  I’ve nothing to think about but you.”

“Then, on your weariest days, come and see me.  We can always see each other in Berkeley Square.  Send me a wire saying you are coming.”

“I could not come to see you,” she said, still looking at him fixedly; “you know that I could not....  Then why do you ask me?”

“Because I want you.”

“You know that I’d like to come.”

“Then, if you do, you’ll come.  I don’t believe in temptations that we don’t yield to.”

“I suppose that the temptation that we yield to is the temptation?”

“Of course.  But, Evelyn, you are not going to waste your life in Dulwich.  Come and see me to-morrow and, if you like, we’ll decide.”

“On what?”

“You know what I mean, dearest.”

“Yes, I think I do,” she said, smiling at once sadly and ardently; “but I’m afraid it wouldn’t succeed.  I’m not the kind of woman to play the part to advantage.”

“I’m very fond of you, and I think you’re very fond of me.”

“You don’t think about it—­you know I am.”

“Then why did you say you would not come and see me?”

“I did not say so.  But something tells me that if I did go away with you it would not succeed.”

“Why do you think that?”

“I don’t know.  Something whispers that it wouldn’t succeed.  All my people were good people—­my mother, my grandmother, my aunts.  I never had a relative against whom anything could be said, so I don’t know why I am what I am.  For I’m only half good.  It is you who make me bad, Owen; it isn’t nice of you.”  She flung her arms about him, and then recoiled from him in a sudden revulsion of feeling.

“When you go away I shall be miserable; I shall repent of all this ...  I’m horrid.”  She covered her face in her hands.  “I didn’t know I was like this.”

A moment after she reached out her hand to him saying—­

“You’re not angry with me?  I can’t help it if I’m like this.  I should like to go and see you; it would be so much to me.  But I must not.  But why mustn’t I?”