“Or is it,” she asked, “because the taste has moved from dramatic singing to il bel canto? In a few years nobody will want to hear me, so I must make hay while the sun shines.”

Her next concert succeeded hardly better than the Glasgow concert; Hull, Leeds, Birmingham were tried, but only with moderate success, and Evelyn returned to London with very little money for the convent, and still less for her poor people.

“It is a disappointment to me, dear Mother?”

“My dear child, you’ve brought us a great deal of money, much more than we expected.”

“But, Mother, I thought I should be able to bring you three thousand pounds, and pay off a great part of your mortgage.”

“God, my child, seems to have thought differently.”

The door opened.

“Now who is this?  Ah!  Sister Mary John.”

“May I come in, dear Mother?”

“Certainly.”

“You see, I was so anxious to see Miss Innes, to hear about the concert tour—­”

“Which wasn’t a success at all, Sister Mary John.  Oh, not at all a success.”

“Not a success?”

“Well, from an artistic point of view it was; I brought you some of the notices,” and Evelyn took out of her pocket some hundreds of cuttings from newspapers.  It had not occurred to her before, but now the thought passed through her mind, formulating itself in this way:  “After all, the mummeress isn’t dead in me yet; bringing my notices to nuns!  Dear me! how like me!” And she sat watching the nuns, a little amused, when the Prioress asked Sister Mary John to read some passages to her.

“Now I can’t sit here and hear you read out my praises.  You can read them when I am gone.  A little more money and a little less praise would have suited me better, Sister Mary John.”

“Would you care to come into the garden?” the nun asked.  “I was just going out to feed the birds.  Poor things! they come in from the common; our garden is full of them.  But what about singing at Benediction to-day?  Would you like to try some music over with me and forget the birds?”

“There will be plenty of time to try over music.”

The door opened again.  It was the porteress come to say that Monsignor had just arrived and would like to speak with the Prioress.

“But ask him to come in....  Here is a friend of yours, Monsignor.  She has just returned from—­”

“From a disastrous concert tour, having only made four hundred pounds with six concerts.  My career as a prima donna is at an end.  The public is tired of me.”

“The artistic public isn’t tired of you,” said Sister Mary John.  “Read, Monsignor; she has brought us all her notices.”