"DEAR OWEN—You may come and see me to-morrow if you care to. I am afraid that your visit will not be a pleasant one. I don't think I could be an agreeable companion to anyone at present, but I cannot send you away without explaining why. However painful that explanation may be to you, there is at all events this to be said, that it will be doubly painful to me. I am not, dear Owen, ungrateful; that you should think me so is the hardest punishment of all, and I am sorry I have not made you happier. I know other women don't feel as I do, but I can't change myself. I feel dreadfully hypocritical writing in this strain. I, less than anyone have a right to do so, especially now. But you will try to understand. You know that I am not a hypocrite at heart. I am determined to tell you all, and you will then see that no course is open to me but to send you away. Even if you were to promise that we should be friends we must not see each other, but I don't think that you would care to see me on those terms. I should have stopped you yesterday when you took my hand, when you kissed me, but I was weak and cowardly. Somehow I could not bring myself to tell you the truth. I shall expect you in the afternoon, and will tell you all. I am punishing myself as well as you. So please don't try to make things more difficult than they are.—Yours very sincerely, EVELYN INNES."
Leaving this letter with directions that it should be posted at once, weary, and with her brain as clear as crystal, she threw herself upon her bed. Folding her arms, she closed her eyes, and strove to banish thoughts of Owen and the confession she was to make that afternoon. But when sleep gathered about her eyes, the memory of past sins, at first dense, then with greater clearness, shone through, and the traitor sleep moved away. Or she would suddenly find herself in the middle of the interview, the entire dialogue standing clear cut in her brain, she could almost see the punctuation of every sentence. Once more she counted the sheep coming through the gate; she counted and counted, until her imagination failed her, and in spite of herself, her eyes opened upon the dreaded room. She heard the clock strike nine. Merat would knock at her door in another half-hour, and she lay waiting, fearing her arrival. But at last her face grew quieter, she seemed to see Monsignor vaguely, she could not tell where nor how he had come to her, but she heard him saying distinctly that she must never sing Isolde again. He seemed to bar her way to the stage, and the music that was to bring her on sounded in her ears, yet she could see the shape of her room and its furniture. A knock came at the door, and she was surprised to find that she had been asleep.
Her brain was a ferment; it seemed as if it were about to fall out of her head; she feared the day, its meal times and the long hours of morning and evening sunshine. The idea of the coming interview with Owen was intolerable. Her brain was splitting, she could not think of what she would say. But her letter had gone! After breakfast she felt a little rested, and went into the park and remained there till lunch time, dimly aware of the open air, the waving of branches, the sound of human voices. Beyond these, and much more distinct, was a vision of her evil life, and the cold, stern face of the priest watching her. She wandered about, and then hastened back to Park Lane. Owen had been. He had left word that he would call again about three o'clock. He would have stayed, but had an engagement to lunch with friends. She lunched alone, and was sitting on the corner of the sofa, heavy-eyed and weary, but determined to be true to her resolutions, when the servant announced him. He came in hurriedly, his hat in his hand, and his eyes went at once to where she was sitting. He saw she was looking ill, but there were more important matters to speak of.
"I came at once, the moment I got your letter. I should have waited, but I was lunching with Lady Merrington. Such terribly boring people were there. It was all I could do to prevent myself from rushing out of the room. But, Evelyn, what are you determined to tell me? I thought we parted good friends yesterday. You have been thinking it over.... You're going to send me away." He sat beside her, he held his hat in both hands, and looked perplexed and worried. "But, Evelyn"—she sat like a figure of stone, there was no colour in her cheeks nor any expression in her eyes or mouth—"Evelyn, I am afraid you are ill, you are pale as a ghost."
"I did not sleep last night, nor the night before."
"Two nights of insomnia are enough to break anyone up. I am very sorry, Evelyn, dear—you ought to go away." Her silence perplexed him, and he said, "Evelyn, I have come to ask you to be my wife. Don't keep me in suspense. Will you give up the stage and be my wife? Why don't you answer? Oh, Evelyn, is it—are you married?"
"No, I am not married, Owen. I don't suppose I ever shall be. If you had wished to marry me—"
"I know all that, that if I wanted to marry you I ought to have done so long ago. But you said you were determined to tell me something—what is it?" The expression of her face did not change; her lips moved a little, she cast down her eyes, and said, "I've got another lover."
He felt that he ought to get very angry, and that to do so was in a way expected of him. He thought he had better say something energetic, lest she should think that he did not care for her. But he was so overcome by the thought of his escape—it was now no longer possible for her to send him away—that he could think of nothing. It even seemed to him that everything was happening for the best, for he did not doubt that she would soon tire, if she were not tired already, of this musician, and then he would easily regain his old influence over her. Even if she did marry this musician, she'd get tired of him, and then who knows —anything was better than that she should go over to that infernal priest. While rejoicing in the defeat of his hated rival, he was anxious that Evelyn should not perceive what was passing in his mind, and, afraid to betray himself, he said nothing, leaving her to conjecture what she pleased from his silence.
"I don't intend to defend my conduct; it is indefensible.... But, Owen, I want you to believe that I did not lie to you. Ulick was not my lover when I went to see you that evening in Berkeley Square."