But Evelyn insisted, saying she would manage in such a way that her poor people should lack nothing.  “Of course they lack a great deal, but what I mean is, they’ll lack nothing they’ve been in the habit of receiving from me,” and, speaking of their unfailing patience in adversity, she said:  “and their lives are always adversity.”

“Your poor people are your occupations since you left the stage?”

“You think me frivolous, or at least changeable, Reverend Mother?”

“No, indeed; no, indeed,” both nuns cried together, and Evelyn thought of what her life had been, how the new occupations which had come into it contrasted with the old—­singing practice in the morning, rehearsals, performances in the evening, intrigues, jealousies; and the change seemed so wonderful that she would like to have spoken of it to the nuns, only that could not be done without speaking of Owen Asher.  But there was no reason for not speaking of her stage life, the life that had drifted by.  “You see, my old friends are no longer interested in me.”  A look of surprise came into the nuns’ faces.  “Why should they be?  They are only interested in me so long as I am available to fill an engagement.  And the singers who were my friends—­what should I speak to them about?  Not of my poor people; though, indeed, many of my friends are very good:  they are very kind to each other.”

“But we mustn’t think of taking the money from you that should go to your poor people.”

“No, no; that is out of the question, dear Mother.  As I have told you, I can easily let you have a hundred pounds; and as for paying off the debts of the convent—­that I look upon as an obligation, as a bonne bouche, I might say.  My heart is set on it.”  “We can never thank you enough.”

“I don’t want to be thanked; it is all pleasure to me to do this for you.  Now goodbye; I’ll write to you about the success of the concerts.  You will pray that I may be a great success, won’t you?  Much more depends upon your prayers than on my voice.”

Mother Philippa murmured that everything was in God’s hands.

The Prioress raised her eyes and looked at Evelyn questioningly.  “Mother Philippa is quite right.  Our prayers will be entirely pleasing to God; He sent you to us.  Without you our convent would be broken up.  We shall pray for you, Evelyn.”

II

The larger part of the stalls was taken up by Lady Ascott’s party; she had a house-party at Thornton Grange, and had brought all her friends to Edinburgh to hear Evelyn.  Added to which, she had written to all the people she knew living in Edinburgh, and within reach of Edinburgh, asking them to come to the concert, pressing tickets upon them.

“But, my dear, is it really true that you have left the stage?  One never heard of such a thing before.  Now, why did you do this?  You will tell me about it?  You will come to Thornton Grange, won’t you, and spend a few days with us?”