At first, too, Rosamund continued to sing at concerts, but at the end of July, after their return from Greece, when the London season closed, she gave up doing so for the time, and accepted no engagements for the autumn.  Esme Darlington was rather distressed.  He worked very hard in the arts himself, and, having “launched” Rosamund, he expected great things of her, and wished her to go forward from success to success.  Besides “the money would surely come in very handy” to two young people as yet only moderately well off.  He did not quite understand the situation.  Of course he realized that in time young married people might have home interests, home claims upon them which might necessitate certain changes of procedure.  The day might come—­he sincerely hoped it would—­when a new glory, possibly even more than one, would be added to the delightful Rosamund’s crown; but in the meanwhile surely the autumn concerts need not be neglected.  He had heard no hint as yet of any—­h’m, ha!  He stroked his carefully careless beard.  But he had left town in August with his curiosity unsatisfied, leaving Rosamund and Dion behind him.  They had had their holiday, and had stayed steadily on in Little Market Street through the summer, taking Saturday to Monday runs into the country; more than once to the seacoast of Kent, where Bruce Evelin and Beatrice were staying, and once to Worcestershire to Dion’s mother, who had taken a cottage there close to the borders of Warwickshire.  The autumn had brought people back to town, and it was in the autumn that Rosamund withdrew from all contact with the hurly-burly of London.  She had no fears at all for her body, none of those sick terrors which some women have as their time draws near, no premonitions of disaster or presages of death, but she desired to “get ready,” and her way of getting ready was to surround her life with a certain stillness, to build about it white walls of peace.  Often when Dion was away in the City she went out alone and visited some church.  Sometimes she spent an hour or two in Westminster Abbey; and on many dark afternoons she made her way to St. Paul’s Cathedral where, sitting a long way from the choir, she listened to evensong.  The beautiful and tenderly cool singing of the distant boys came to her like something she needed, something to which her soul was delicately attuned.  One afternoon they and the men, who formed the deeply melodious background from which their crystalline voices seemed to float forward and upward, sang “The Wilderness” of Wesley.  Rosamund listened to it, thankful that she was alone, and remembering many things, among them the green wilderness beneath the hill of Drouva.