“If you had only patience, Evelyn—­ah! you have heard what I am going to say so often, but I don’t blame your incredulity.  That was why I did not tell you before.”

“What has happened?” she asked eagerly; for she, too, wished for a lull in this stress of emotion.

“Well,” he said, “Monsignor Mostyn, the great Roman prelate, who has just arrived from Rome, and is staying with the Jesuits, shares all my views regarding the necessity of a musical reformation.  He believes that a revival of Palestrina and Vittoria would be of great use to the Catholic cause in England.  He says that he can secure the special intervention of the Pope, and, what is much more important, he will subscribe largely, and has no doubt that sufficient money can be collected.”

Evelyn listened, smiling through her sorrow, like a bird when the rain has ceased for a moment, and she asked questions, anxious to delay the inevitable return to her own unhappy condition.  She was interested in the luck that had come to her father, and was sorry that her conduct had clouded or spoilt it.  At last a feeling of shame came upon them that at such a time they should be engaged in speaking of such singularly irrelevant topics.  She could see that the same thought had come upon him, and she noticed his trim, square figure, and the old blue jacket which she had known so many years, as he walked up and down the room.  He was getting very grey lately, and when she returned he might be quite white.

“Oh, father, father,” she exclaimed, covering her face with her hands, “how unhappy I am.”

“I shall send a telegram to Monsignor saying I can’t see him this morning.”

“Ah! you have to see him this morning;” and she did not know whether she was glad or sorry.  Perhaps she was more frightened than either, for the appointment left her quite free to go to London by the three o’clock train.

“I can’t leave you alone.”

“Darling, if I had wanted to deceive you, I should have told you nothing; and, however you were to watch me, I could always get away if I chose.”

She was right, he could not keep her by force, he could do nothing; shame prevented him from appealing to her affection for him, for it was in his interest she should stay.  After all, Sir Owen will make a great singer of her.  The thought had come and gone before he was aware, and to atone for this involuntary thought he spoke to her about her religion.

“I used to be religious,” she said, “but I am religious no longer.  I can hardly say my prayers now.  I said them last night, but this morning I couldn’t.”

He passed his hand across his eyes, and said—­

“It seems all like a bad dream.”