"That I can't tell, Agnes.... I don't think so.... You won't tell my father I'm here when you let him in?... I want it to be a surprise."
"I won't say nothing, miss. I'll leave him to find it out."
Evelyn felt that the girl must have guessed her story, must have perceived in her the repentant daughter—the erring daughter returned home. Everything pointed to that fact. Well, it couldn't be helped if she had.
"If my father will only forgive me; if that first dreadful scene were only over, we could have an enchanting evening together."
She was too nervous to seek out a volume of Bach and let her fingers run over the keys; she played anything that came into her head, sometimes she stopped to listen. At last there came a knock, and her heart told her it was his. In another moment he would be in the room. But seeing her he stopped, and, without a word, he went to a table and began untying a parcel of music.
"Father, I've come to see you.... You don't answer. Father, are you not going to speak to me? I've been longing to see you, and now—"
"If you had wanted to see me, you'd have come a month ago."
"I was not in London a month ago."
"Well, three weeks ago."
"I ought to have done so, but I had no courage. I could only see you looking at me as you are looking now. Forgive me, father.... I'm your only daughter; she's full of failings, but she has never ceased to love you."