noon, 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 t