It was these little authoritative airs that enchanted her remembrance of him; and while the chambermaid poured out her bath she thought of the gown she was going to wear.  She knew that she had some pink silk stockings to match it, but it took her a long while to find them.  She opened all the wrong boxes.  “It’s extraordinary,” she thought, “how long it takes one to dress sometimes; all one’s things get wrong.”  And when hooking the skirt she suddenly remembered she had no parasol suitable to the gown.  It was Sunday; it would be impossible to buy one.  There was nothing for it but to send for Owen.  If there was anything wrong with her gown he would give her no peace.  He wished her to wear a flower-embroidered dress, but her fancy was set on a pale yellow muslin, and it amused her to get cross with him and to send him out of the room; but when the door closed she was moved to run after him.  The grave question as to what she would wear dispelled other thoughts.  She must be serious; and to please him she decided she would wear the gown he liked, and as she fixed the hat that went with it she admired the contrast of its purple with her rich hair.  Owen was always right.  She had never thought that she could look so well, and it was a happy moment when he took her by both hands and said—­

“Dearest, you are delicious—­quite delicious.  You’ll be the prettiest woman at Longchamps to-day.”

She asked for tea, but he said they were in France, and must conform to French taste.  When Marie Antoinette was informed that the people wanted bread, etc., Evelyn thought Marie Antoinette must have been a cruel woman.  But she liked chocolate and the brioche, and henceforth they were brought to her bedside, and in a Sevres service, a present from Owen.

“When they had finished the little meal he rang for writing material, and said—­

“Now, my dear Evelyn, you must write to your father.”

“Must I?  What shall I say?  Oh, Owen, I cannot write.  If I did, father would come over here, and then—­”

“I’ll tell you what to say.  I’ll dictate the letter you ought to write.  You need not give him any address, but you must let him know you’re well, and why you intend to remain abroad.  It is by relieving his mind on these subjects that you’ll save yourself from the vexation of his hunting you up here....  Come, now,” he said, noticing the agonised and bewildered look on Evelyn’s face, “this is the only disagreeable hour in the day—­you must put up with it.  Here is the pen.  Now write—­

“’My DEAR FATHER,—­I should be happy in Paris, very happy, if it were not for the knowledge of the grief that my flight must have occasioned you.  Of course I have acted very wrongly, very wickedly—­’”

“But,” said Evelyn, “you told me I was acting rightly, that to do otherwise would be madness.”

“Yes, and I only told you the truth.  But in writing to your father you must adopt the conventional tone.  There’s no use in trying to persuade your father you did right....  I don’t know, though.  Scratch out ’I have acted wrongly and very wickedly,’ and write—­