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Updated: June 24, 2025
He was sitting there engaged in conversation with an elderly woman a woman of about fifty, who, catching sight of her, whispered something to him. "Evelyn.... This is Lady Duckle." "Sir Owen has been telling me, Miss Innes, what Madame Savelli said about your voice. I do not know how to congratulate you. I suppose such a thing has not happened before."
Her little book entitled Souvenirs of Some Great Composers was alluded to, and Owen mentioned that at that time she was the great Parisian beauty. "But instead of going on the stage, I married Lord Duckle." And this early mistake she seemed to consider as sufficient explanation for all subsequent misfortunes. Evelyn wondered what these might be, and Owen said
Did he really believe that lovers may tempt each other life after life, that a group of people may come together again? "Mademoiselle, it is half-past ten." "Very well, Merat, I will get up. I will ring for you when I have had my bath." "Lady Duckle has gone out, and will not be home for lunch." There was not even a letter, and the day stretched out before her.
"Dulwich is not six miles from here. We can drive there easily in three-quarters of an hour. And three-quarters of an hour to get back. They won't begin to rehearse the second act before one. It is a little after ten now." "Then good-bye." Lady Duckle followed her to the front door and stood for a moment to admire the beauty of the morning.
He had written asking her to come and pass the evening with him.... She might call to see him on her way to the ball; yes, that is what she would do, and she sat down at once and wrote a note. And she laughed and talked during dinner, and was surprised when Lady Duckle remarked how pale and ill she was looking, for she thought she was making a fine outward show of high spirits.
And this companionship would be necessarily based on subterfuge and deceit. She would have to talk to her of her friendship for Owen. She could never speak of Owen to Lady Duckle as her lover.
She and Lady Duckle were dining alone, and she tried to devise a plan for going to Berkeley Square without taking Lady Duckle into her confidence. The horrible scene with Owen flitted before her eyes while talking of other things. And so the evening dragged itself out in the drawing-room. "Olive, I want to make a call before going to Lady Ascott's; I will send the carriage back for you."
Lady Duckle leaned across the table, glancing from time to time at Evelyn, as if to assure herself that she was still in the presence of this extraordinary person, and murmured something about having the honour of assisting at what she was sure would be a great career. Owen noticed that Evelyn seemed preoccupied, and did not respond very eagerly to Lady Duckle's advances.
Evelyn could see that Owen liked Lady Duckle, and her conversation, which at first might have seemed extravagant and a little foolish, was illuminated with knowledge and a vague sense of humour which was captivating.
She would not stop to lunch, though she could not urge any better reason than that Lady Duckle was waiting for her, and when he wished to kiss her, she turned her head aside; a moody look collected in her eyes, an ugly black resentment gathered in her heart; she was ashamed of herself, for there was nothing to warrant her being so disagreeable, and to pass the matter off, she described herself as being aggressively virtuous that morning.
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