she would very likely meet Ulick at rehearsal, and could find out from
him how her father would be likely to receive her visit. Ulick seemed
the solution of the difficulty--only he might tell her that her father
did not wish to see her. She did not think he would say that, and the
swing of her carriage and her thoughts went to the same rhythm until the
carriage stopped before the stage door of Covent Garden Theatre.

As she ascended the stairs the swing door was pushed open. The pilgrims'
song drifted through it, and she knew that they had begun the overture.
She crossed a stage in indescribable disorder. Scene-shifters were
calling to each other, and there was an incessant hammering in the
flies. "We might as well rehearse in a barn with the threshing-machine
going all the while," Evelyn thought. She had to pass down a long
passage to get to the stalls, and, finding herself in inky darkness, she
grew nervous, though she knew well enough whither it led. At last she
perceived a little light, and, following it for a while, she happened to
stumble into one of the boxes, and there she sat and indulged in angry
comments on the negligence of English operatic management.

Through the grey twilight of the auditorium she could see heads and
hands, and shapes of musical instruments. The conductor's grey hair was
combed back over his high forehead. He swung a lean body to the right
and left. Suddenly he sprang up in his seat, and, looking in the
direction of certain instruments, he brought down his stick
determinedly, and, having obtained the effect he desired, his beat swung
leisurely for a while.... "'Cellos, crescendo," he cried. "Ah, _mon
Dieu!_ Ta-ra-la-la-la! Now, gentlemen, number twenty-five, please."

For a few bars the stick swung automatically, striking the harmonium as
it descended. "'Cellos, a sudden piano on the accent, and then no accent
whatever. Ta-ra-ta-ta-ta!"

At the back of the stalls the poor Italian chorus had gathered like a
herd, not daring to sit in seats, the hire of which for a few hours
equalled their weekly wages. But the English girls, whose musical tastes
had compelled them from their suburban homes, had no such scruples.
Confident of the cleanliness of their skirts and hats, they sat in the
best stalls, their scores on their knees. One happened to look up as
Evelyn entered. She whispered to her neighbours, and immediately after
the row was discussing Bayreuth and Evelyn Innes.

Meanwhile, the