The prim convent parlour, the chairs set staidly with their backs to the wall, the discreet solemnity of the drab curtains, the precision with which each book, each print was arranged, how well she knew them all! Entry into those solemn precincts was a matter of reflection. Evelyn remembered rushing in once, as a child—the subsequent correction.... Fortunately perhaps for her, her personal visitors were few and far between at that time. When she was two years old her mother died. She scarcely knew her father. Her uniform, the air of repression with which she had been taught to receive guests, raised a high wall of separation between the handsome, easy-going Indian officer, whose interest in life was bounded by polo and "shikar," and the decorous child, whose passionate revolt against her surroundings he was not wise enough to guess. It was not his fault. He knew nothing of children, and Evelyn’s weekly mail letters, written under the personal supervision of the Reverend Mother, were scarcely valuable as evidences of character. Colonel Harcourt usually wrote to announce his return to England, but, on Evelyn’s fourteenth birthday, he arrived unexpectedly. She found him the parlour, nervously dog’s-earing the pages of one of Lady Georgina Fullerton’s novels. He looked unusually big and ill-at-ease, even for him. Evelyn saw with horror that the _Catholic Times_ and _Universe_, the Reverend Mother’s personal property, which were invariably folded in their original folds when read, to be posted to a poorer French community, had been crushed almost out of shape by his nervous fingers, and lay in an untidy heap upon the floor. In one hand Colonel Harcourt convulsively clutched a large brown-paper parcel. Evelyn tried to turn her eyes from it in vain. She knew it was for her—her birthday present, and her heart leapt. What a day of days it would be! Perhaps—her eyes glowed at the thought—her father might even take her to some place of amusement. Colonel Harcourt started as she ran towards him. Something about her reminded him of her mother. Her look was so gay, her cheeks so flushed, and, in her hurried obedience to the lay sister’s call, a long tress of dark hair had escaped from its restraining ribbon. He stared her up and down, disconcerted, suddenly conscious of difficulty in his self-appointed task. "Time passes very quickly," he complained; "how you’ve grown! I’ve brought you a present for your birthday, and, now I see you again, I’m not quite sure you’ll like it. And I chose it so carefully too!"