They were dining together in a restaurant, and as she came forward to meet him he said to himself, “She looks like accepting the engagement.”  And when he spoke about it to her he only reminded her that by returning to the stage she would be able to make more money for her poor people, for he felt it were better not to argue.  To take her hand and tell her that it was beautiful was much more in his line, to put his arm about her when they drove back together in the hansom, and speak to her of the cottage at Reading—­this he could do very well; and he continued to inflame her senses until she withdrew herself from his arm, and he feared that he was compromising his chance of seeing her on the morrow.

“But you will come to the park, won’t you?  Remember, it is our last day together.”

“Not the last,” she said, “the last but one.  Yes, I will see you to-morrow.  Now goodbye.”

“May I not go upstairs with you?”

“No, Ulick, I cannot bring you up to my flat; it is too late.”

“Then walk a little way.”

“But if I were to accept that engagement do you think I could remain a Catholic?”

Ulick could see no difficulty, and begged of her to explain.

His question was not answered until they had passed many lamp-posts, and then as they retraced their steps she said: 

“Travelling about with an opera company do you think I could go to Mass, above all to Communion?”

“But you’ll be on tour; nobody will know.”

“What shall I do when I return to London?”

“Why look so far ahead?”

“All my friends know that I go to Mass.”

“But you can go to Mass all the same and communicate.”

“But if you were my lover?”

“Would that make any difference?”

“Of course it would make a difference if I were to continue to go to Mass and communicate; I should be committing a sacrilege.  You cannot ask me to do that.”

Ulick did not like the earnestness with which she spoke these words.  That she was yielding, however, there could be little doubt, and whatever doubt remained in his mind was removed on the following day in the park under the lime-trees, where they had been sitting for some time, talking indolently—­at least, Ulick had been talking indolently of the various singers who had been engaged.  He had done most of the talking, watching the trees and the spire showing between them, enjoying the air, and the colour of the day, a little heedless of his companion, until looking up, startled by some break in her voice, he saw that she was crying.

“Evelyn, what is the matter?  You are crying.  I never saw you cry before.”

She laughed a little, but there was a good deal of grief in her laughter, and confessed herself to be very unhappy.  Life was proving too much for her, and when he questioned her as to her meaning, she admitted in broken answers that his departure with the company was more than she could bear.