They returned in an hour’s time.  Sibyl then withdrew for a few minutes, and reappeared in an exquisite tea-gown, which made her friend’s frock, though new and handsome, look something less than suitable to the occasion.  Alma, glancing about the room, spoke as if in pursuance of a train of thought.

‘People do make a lot of money out of bicycles, I think?’

‘I have heard so,’ answered her hostess indifferently.  ’Will you play me something?  The piano has been tuned; I should like to know if you think it all right.’

‘I have quite given up playing the piano.’

‘Indeed?  And the violin too?’

’No, no; the violin is my instrument.  Whose is that little water-colour, Sibyl?  I tried for just that effect of sun through mist not long ago.’

’Oh yes, to be sure, you have gone in for water-colours; you told me in a letter.  I must see some of your things.  Of course, I shall becoming ——­’

The door opened, and a small page, very smartly equipped, to Alma; she had not as yet seen this functionary; but Mrs. announced Mrs. Herbert Strangeways.  The page was a surprise Strangeways drew her attention.  A lady of perhaps thirty-five, with keen, thin face, and an artificial bloom on her hollow cheeks; rather overdressed, yet not to the point of vulgarity; of figure very well proportioned, slim and lissom.  Her voice was a trifle hard, but pleasant; her manner cordial in excess.

’So here you are, chez vous.  Charming!  Charming!  The prettiest room I have seen for a long time.  Mrs. Rolfe?  Oh, Mrs. Rolfe, the name put me out for a moment; but I remember you perfectly, perfectly.  It was at the Wigrams’; you played the violin wonderfully!’

Alma did not much care to be reminded of this.  Mr. Wigram, one of her father’s co-directors, was lying at this moment in durance vile, and his wife lived somewhere or other on charity.  But Mrs. Strangeways uttered the name without misgiving, and behaved as though nothing conceivable could have afforded her more delight than to meet Alma again.  It was her habit to speak in superlatives, and to wear a countenance of corresponding ecstasy.  Any casual remark from either of the ladies she received with a sort of rapture; her nerves seemed to be in a perpetual thrill.  If she referred to herself, it was always with depreciation, and not at all the kind of depreciation which invites compliment, but a tremulous self-belittlement, such as might be natural in a person who had done something to be ashamed of, and held her place in society only on sufferance.

‘You still play, of course?’ she said to Mrs. Rolfe presently.  ’I so hope I may have the pleasure of hearing you again.  I wonder whether I could persuade you to come next Wednesday?  We have a little house in Porchester Terrace.  Of course, I don’t mean to ask you to play; I shouldn’t venture to.  Just a few friends in the evening —­ if you didn’t think it tiresome?  I’ll send you a card.’