“A sonata?”

“Well, something in that way... not very strict in form perhaps.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“When you come to see me I should like to show you some of my things.  You will come to see me when you are in London... when you have a moment?”

“Evelyn always keeps her promises,” he said to himself, and he did not give up hope that she would come to see him, although nearly two weeks went by without his hearing from her.  Then a note came, saying that she had been kept busy and had not been able to find spare time, but yesterday a pupil had written saying she would not come to her lesson, “so now I can come to you.”

“Miss Innes, Sir Owen.”

His face lighted up, and laying his book aside he sprang out of his chair, and all consciousness of time ceased in his mind till she began to put on her glove.

“You have only just arrived, and already you are going.”

“My dear Owen, I have been here an hour, and the time has passed quickly for you because you have been playing your music over for me and I have been singing... humming, for it is hardly singing now.”

“I am sorry, Evelyn, the time has seemed so long to you.  I didn’t intend to bore you.  You said you would like to see some of my music.”

“So I did, Owen, and some of the best things you have composed are among those you have shown me.  Your writing has improved a great deal.”

“I am so glad you think so.  When will you come again?”

“The first spare hour.”

“Really?  You promise.”

They saw each other at intervals.  Sometimes the intervals were very long, and Owen would write to her complaining, and he would get a note telling that her time was not her own, and that a great deal of money was necessary for her boys.  But she would try to come and see him next week, and he would write begging her not to disappoint him, as he was giving a concert and wanted her help to compose the programme.

A great deal of time was spent in Berkeley Square, more than she could afford, trying pieces over; and she would often say, “My dear Owen, I really must go now or I shall miss my train at Victoria.”  He always looked disappointed when she said she was going, and he never could understand why she would not sing at his concerts.  It was very difficult even to persuade her to come to one.

“You see, I cannot sleep here, Owen.  I have to go to a hotel.”

One day she got a letter from him which she feared to open.  “It is to ask me to help him to compose another programme, and I haven’t got a minute.”

She was mistaken.  The letter was to tell her that he had been elected president of the new choral society... “a group of young musicians.”  The envelope enclosed a programme, and she read:  “President, Sir Owen Asher, Bart.”  “I’m glad, I’m glad,” she said as she walked up the room.  “He has some natural talent for music, and if he hadn’t been born a rich man and spent his life doing other things he might have done something in music.  If he had begun younger... if he hadn’t met me... a good many ifs; but there it is, and that is how it has ended.”