“Well, Sir Owen, you see, I don’t think mademoiselle will ever go back to the stage.”

“You think that, Merat?  Well, then, the only thing to save her from religion is marriage.  I don’t mind telling you, nor is there any need to tell you—­you must know—­that I have always wanted her to be my wife, only she would not marry me, and for some reason impossible to get at.”

“Mademoiselle is like nobody else; elle avait toujours son idee.”

“Parfaitement, comme disent les paysannes de chez vous, d’une bete qui ne ressemble pas au troupeau et qui allait toujours.”

“Oui, mademoiselle a eu toujours son idee.  So Sir Owen thinks it was fear of going back to the stage that persuaded mademoiselle to—­”

“Something like that, Merat.  She liked Mr. Dean.”

“But you are first in her thoughts, Sir Owen.”

“That isn’t astonishing.  We have known each other so long.  Now, after what has happened, perhaps she will think differently about marriage, do you understand, Merat.  She may think differently to-morrow, for instance, and it would be better for all of us—­for you, for myself, for her.  Don’t you agree?”

“Well, Sir Owen, there is nothing I should like more than to see mademoiselle married, only—­”

“Only you don’t think she’ll marry me?”

“Comme monsieur a dit, elle a eu toujours son idee.”

“But after the great shock surely she will see that marriage is the only way.”  Owen continued to talk of marriage a little while longer, and all the way home his thoughts ran on his chance of persuading Evelyn to marry him.  It did not seem possible that she could refuse after the shock.  The chances were all with him:  he would catch her in a moment when her faith in religion would be weakened, for she must see that it had not saved her from attempted suicide; all the chances were in his favour, and he hardly doubted at all he would be able to persuade her to marry him.  Once she agreed she would carry it out; nothing she hated as much as any alteration of plan.

His mind wandered back into the past years, and he recalled little facts significant of her character.  However loud the storm she would cross the Channel, though there was no reason for it—­merely, as she said, because it had been arranged to cross that day.  He could remember the dress she wore on that occasion, and the expression of her face.  Other instances equally trivial floated into his mind, every one strangely vivid, delighting him because they were characteristic of her.  If he could only get her to say she would marry him.  It would be unnecessary to explain why he had sent Ulick to her.  Or he might explain.  It didn’t matter.  Ulick would pass out of their lives, and all this miserable business would be forgotten.