much afraid she is dead or overpowered; another Evelyn has been born in you, and it overpowers the old.  An idea has come into your mind, you must obey it, or your life would be misery.  Yes, I understand, and I am glad you are going to the convent, for I would not see you wretched.  When I say I understand, I only mean that I acquiesce—­I shall never cease to wonder how such a strange idea has come into your mind; but there is no use arguing that point, we have argued it often enough, God knows!  I cannot go to London to bid you goodbye.  Goodbyes are hateful to me.  I never go to trains to see people off, nor down to piers to wave handkerchiefs, nor do I go to funerals.  Those who indulge their grief do so because their grief is not very deep.  I cannot go to London to bid you goodbye unless you promise to see me in the convent.  Worse than a death-bed goodbye would be the goodbye I should bid you, and it, too, would be for eternity.  But say I can go to see you in the convent, and I will come to London to see you.

“Yours,

“OWEN.”

* * * * *

“MY DEAR OWEN,—­You have written me a beautiful letter.  Not one word of it would I have unwritten, and it is a very great grief to me that I cannot write you a letter which would please you as much as your letter pleases me.  No woman, since the world began, has had such a lover as I have had, and yet I am putting him aside.  What a strange fatality!  Yet I cannot do otherwise.  But there is consolation for me in the thought that you understand; had it been otherwise, it would have been difficult for me to bear it.  You know I am not acting selfishly, but because I cannot do otherwise.  I have been through a great deal, Owen, more, perhaps, even than you can imagine.  That night!  But we must not speak of it, we must not speak of it!  Rest is required, avoidance of all agitation—­that is what the doctor says, and it agitates me to write this letter.  But it must be done.  To see you, to say goodbye to you, would be an agitation which neither of us could bear, we should both burst into tears; and for you to come to see me in the convent would be another agitation which must be avoided.  The Prioress would not allow me to see you alone, if she allowed me to see you at all.  No, Owen, don’t come to see me either in London or in the convent.  Leave me to work out my destiny as best I can.  In three or four months perhaps I shall have recovered.  Until then,

“Yours ever,

“EVELYN.”

XVII

In a letter to Monsignor, Evelyn wrote: