o to St. Joseph's.
Then like a flash the question came, was it Monsignor's influence that
had induced this desire of a pure life in her? She could not deny to
herself that she was attracted by his personality. So the question was,
how far his personality accounted for the change that had come over her
life? Was it the mere personal influence of the prelate, or an inherent
sense of right and wrong that compelled her to send her lovers away and
change her life? If it were the mere personal influence of Monsignor,
her desire of a pure life would not last, and to attain something that
was not natural to her she would have ruined her life to no purpose.
Owen's influence had died in her; how did she know that Monsignor's
would continue even so long? She had lived an evil life for six years;
would she lead a good one for the same time? If she knew this she would
know how to act. But not only for six years would she have to lead a
good life, but till the very end of her life. If she did not persevere
till the very end, all this present struggle and the years of
self-denial which she was was about to enter on would be useless. She
might just as well have had a good time all along. A good time! That was
just it. She could not have a good time. She dare not face the agony,
the agony which she was at present enduring, so she must go to
confession, she must have inward peace.

"So my life is over and done," she said, "and at seven-and-twenty!"

She twisted in her fingers a letter which she had received that morning
from Mademoiselle Helbrun. She was staying at the Savoy Hotel, and had
just returned from Munich. Evelyn felt she would like to hear about her
success as Frika, and how So-and-So had sung Brunnhilde, and the rest of
the little gossip about the profession. She would like to lunch with
Louise in the restaurant, at a table by the window. She would like to
see the Thames, and hear things that she might never hear again. But was
it possible that she was never going to join again in the tumult of the
Valkyrie? She remembered her war gear, the white tunic with gold
breastplates. Was it possible that she would never cry their cry from
the top of the rocks; and her favourite horse, the horse that Owen had
given her for the part, what would become of him? What would become of
her jewellery, of her house, of her fame, of everything? She attempted a
last stand against her conscience. Her scruples were imaginary. Owen had
said it cou