“How clever you are,” she said, looking up.  “You have written just the kind of letter that will influence father.  I have lived with father all my life, and yet I couldn’t have known how to write that letter.  How did you think of it?”

“I’ve put the case truthfully, haven’t I?  Now, do you copy out that letter and address it; meanwhile I’ll go round to Voisin’s and order breakfast.  Try to have it finished by the time I get back.  We’ll post it on our way.”

She promised that she would do so, but instead sat a long while with the letter in her hands.  It was so unlike herself that she could not bring herself to send it.  It would not satisfy her father, he would sooner receive something from her own familiar heart, and, obeying a sudden impulse, she wrote—­

“My DARLING,—­What must you think of me, I wonder! that I am an ungrateful girl?  I hope not.  I don’t think you would be so unjust as to think such things of me.  I have been very wicked, but I have always loved you, father, and never more than now; and had anything in the world been able to stop me, it would have been my love of you.  But, father dear, it was just as I told you; I was determined to resist the temptation if I could, but when the time came I could not.  I did my best, indeed I did.  I went through agony after agony after you left, and in the end I had to go whether I desired it or not.  I could not have stopped in Dulwich any longer; if I had I should have died, and then you would have lost me altogether.  You would not have liked to see me pine away, grow white, and lie coughing on the sofa like poor mother.  No, you would not.  It would have killed you.  You remember how ill I was last Easter when he was away in the Mediterranean, darling.  We’ve always been pals, we’ve always told each other everything, we never had any secrets, and never shall.  I should have died if I hadn’t gone away.  Now I’ve told you everything—­isn’t that so?—­and when I come back a great success, you’ll come and hear me sing.  My success would mean very little if you were not there.  I would sooner see your dear, darling face in a box than any crowned head in Europe.  If I were only sure that you would forgive me.  Everything else will turn out right.  Owen will be good to me, I shall get on; I have little fear on that score.  If I could only know that you were not too lonely, that you were not grieving too much.  I shall write to Margaret and beg her to look after you.  But she is very careless, and the grocer often puts down things in his book that we never had.  A couple of years, and then we shall see each other again.  Do you think, darling, you can live all that time without me?  I must try to live that time without you.  It will be hard to do so, I shall miss you dreadfully, so if you could manage to write to me, not too cross a letter, it would make a great deal of difference.  Of course, you are thinking of the disgrace I have brought on you.  There need