n; you know it, of course, what a
beautiful piece of music it is. But I see that you don't admire it."

"Well," Evelyn said, smiling, "it is contrary to all the principles I've
been brought up in."

"We might walk a little; we are at the end of the summer, and the air is
a little cold. You do not mind walking very slowly? I'm forbidden to
walk fast on account of my heart."

They crossed the sloping lawn, and walking slowly up St. Peter's walk,
amid sad flutterings of leaves from the branches of the elms, Evelyn
told the Reverend Mother the story of the musical reformation which her
father had achieved. She asked Evelyn if it would be possible to give
Palestrina at the convent and they reached the end of the walk. It was
flushed with September, and in the glittering stillness the name of
Palestrina was exquisite to speak. They passed the tall cross standing
at the top of the rocks, and the Reverend Mother said, speaking out of
long reflection--"Have I never heard any of the music you sing? Wagner I
have never heard, but the Italian operas, 'Lucia' and 'Trovatore,' or
Mozart? Have you never sung Mozart?"

"Very little. I am what is called a dramatic soprano. The only Italian
opera I've sung is 'Norma.' Do you know it?"

"Yes."

"I've sung Leonore--not in 'Trovatore,' in 'Fidelio.'"

"But surely you admire 'Trovatore'--the 'Miserere,' for instance. Is not
that beautiful?"

"It is no doubt very effective, but it is considered very common now."
Evelyn hummed snatches of the opera; then the waltz from "Traviata."
"I've sung Margaret."

"Ah."

And as she hummed the Jewel Song she watched the Reverend Mother's
face, and was certain that the nun had heard the music on the stage. But
at that moment the angelus bell rang. Evelyn had forgotten the
responses, and as she walked towards the convent she asked the Reverend
Mother to repeat them once again, so that she might have them by heart.
She excused herself, saying how difficult was the observance of
religious forms for those who live in the world.

After dinner she wrote two letters. One was to her father, the other was
to Monsignor, and having directed the letters she imagined the postal
arrangement to be somewhat irregular. After Benediction she would ask
Veronica what time the letters left the convent. And looking across the
abyss which separated them, she saw her passionate self-centred past and
Veronica's little transit from the schoolroom to the convent. It se