Dion reddened.

“Why don’t you like to tell me?”

“Oh, well—­things go through the mind without our wishing them to.  You must know that, Rosamund.  They are often like absurd little intruders.  One kicks them out if one can.”

“What kind of intruder did you kick out, or try to kick out, at Burstal?”

She spoke half-laughingly, but half-challengingly.

He drew a little nearer to her.

“Sometimes I have fancied that perhaps, that day at Burstal, you suddenly realized that love might be a more powerful upholder of life than ambition ever could be.”

“Sometimes?  And you thought it first on the downs, or at any rate after the concert?”

“I think I did.”

“Do you realize,” she said slowly, and as if with an effort, “that you and I have never discussed my singing in ’Elijah’?”

“I know we never have.”

“Let us do it now,” she continued, still seeming to make a strong effort.

“But why should we?”

“I want to.  Didn’t I sing well?”

“I thought you sang wonderfully well.”

“Then what was it that went wrong?  I’ve never understood.”

“Why should you think anything went wrong?  The critics said it was a remarkable performance.  You made a great effect.”

“I believe I did.  But I felt for the first time that day that I was out of sympathy with my audience.  And then”—­she paused, but presently added with a certain dryness—­“I was never offered any engagement to sing in oratorio after Burstal.”

“I believe a good many people thought your talent would show at its best in opera.”

“I shall never go on the stage.  The idea is hateful to me, and always has been.  Would you like me to sing on the stage?”

“No.”

“Dion, why don’t you tell me what happened that day at Burstal?”

“I scarcely could.”

“I wish you would try.”

“Well—­I think it was a mistake for you to begin your public career in oratorio by singing ‘Woe unto them.’”

“Why?”

“It’s an unsympathetic thing.  It’s a cruel sort of thing.”

“Cruel?  But it’s one of the best-known things in oratorio.”

“You made it quite new.”

“How?”

“It sounded fanatical when you sang it.  I never heard it sound like that before.”

“Fanatical?” she said, and her voice was rather cold.

“Rosamund,” he said, quickly and anxiously, “you asked me to tell you exactly what I meant, what I felt, that is——­”

“Yes, I know.  Go on, Dion.  Well?  It sounded fanatical——­”

“To me.  I’m only telling you my impression.  When I’ve heard ’Woe unto them’ before it has always sounded sad, piteous if you like, a sort of wailing.  When you sang it, somehow it was like a curse, a tremendous summoning of vengeance.”

“Why not?  Are not the words ’Destruction shall fall upon them’?”