ch the passing thought that Evelyn
might be in want of money was dismissed as ridiculous. Louise thought of
some unhappy love affair, and when they sat down to lunch she noticed
that Evelyn avoided answering a question regarding herself, and turned
the conversation on to the Munich performance. The evident desire of
Evelyn not to talk about herself clouded Louise's pleasure in talking of
herself, and she paused in her account of the Wotan, the Brunnhilde, the
conductor and the Rhine Maidens to tell Evelyn of the inquiries that had
been made about her--all were looking forward to her Kundry next year.
Madame Wagner had said that there never had been such a Brunnhilde.

"I daresay she said so, but at the bottom of her heart she did not like
my Brunnhilde. It was against her ideas. She always thought I was too
much woman. She said that I forgot that I was a Goddess. And she was
right. I never could remember the Goddess. I never remember anything on
the stage. 'Tisn't my way. I simply live it all out. I was enthusiastic
when Siegfried came to release me, because I should have been
enthusiastic about him." Evelyn's thoughts went back to Owen, and she
remembered how he had released her from the bondage of music lessons
with a kiss.

"But when I came to tell you about the ruined Valhala and the poor
fallen Gods you were sorry?"

"Yes, I was sorry for father."

"The All-Father?"

Evelyn laughed.

"No, my own father. That's my way. I think of what has happened to me
and I act that. But tell me about the Munich performances."

While Mademoiselle Helbrun told of the different points in which they
excelled, Evelyn thought and thought of the strange charm of the woman
who had so ably continued the Master's work. She recalled the tall,
bending figure, she saw the alley of clipped limes, she remembered the
spacious rooms, and then his study, the walls lined with bookcases,
books of legends and philosophical works, the room in which he had
written "The Dusk of the Gods" and "Parsifal." Thinking of the studious
months she had spent in that house, a vivid memory of one night shot
across her brain. It was a heavy, breathless night, without star or
moon. She had wandered into the dark garden; she had found her way to
the grave, and standing by the Master's side she had listened to the
music and seen the guests passing across the lighted windows. The warble
of the fountain had seemed to her like the pulse of Eternity. All that
was