There entered a tall young man of consumptive features, accompanied by a stout, florid woman, older than himself; and upon this couple followed half-a-dozen miscellaneous callers, some of whom Alma knew.  These old acquaintances met her with a curiosity they hardly troubled to disguise; she herself was reserved, and took no part in the general chatter.  Mrs Strangeways withdrew into a corner, as if wishing to escape observation.  When Mrs. Rolfe took a chair by her side, she beamed with gratitude, and their gossip grew quite intimate.  Alma could not understand why Sibyl had stigmatised this woman as ‘rapid’ —­ that is to say, ‘fast’; she gabbled, indeed, at a great rate, but revealed no startling habits of life or thought, and seemed to have rather an inclination for childish forms of amusement.  Before they parted, Alma gave a promise that she would go to Mrs. Strangeways ‘at home’ next Wednesday.

’And your husband, if he would care to come.  I should be so delighted to know him.  But perhaps he doesn’t care about that kind of thing.  I hate to bore anyone —­ don’t you?  But then, of course, you’re never in danger of doing it.  So very, very glad to have met you!  And so exceedingly kind of you to promise! —­ so very kind!’

As Sibyl also was going to Porchester Terrace, they arranged to chaperon each other and to start from Mrs. Rolfe’s hotel.

‘It’s no use making Harvey uncomfortable,’ said Alma.  ’He would go if I asked him but sorely against the grain.  He always detested ‘at homes’ —­ except when he came to admire me!  And he likes to see me going about independently.’

‘Does he?’ said Sibyl, with an inquiring look.

’Yes —­ seriously.  We do our best not to encumber each other.  Don’t you think it’s the best way?’

‘No doubt whatever.’

Mrs. Carnaby smiled, and the smile grew to a laugh; but she would not explain what she meant by it.

On the Wednesday evening, they reached Mrs. Strangeways’ house at ten o’clock.  Carriages and cabs made a queue up to the door, and figures succeeded each other rapidly on the red cloth laid down across the pavement.  Alma was nervous.  More than three years had passed since the fatal evening when, all unconsciously, she said goodbye to social splendours; from then till now she had taken part in no festivity.  The fact that her name was no longer Frothingham gave her some encouragement; but she must expect to be recognised, perhaps to be stared at.  Well, and would it be so very disagreeable?  An hour before, the mirror had persuaded her that she need not shrink from people’s eyes; her dress defied criticism, and she had not to learn how to bear herself with dignity.  Sibyl was unusually lavish of compliments, and in a matter such as this Sibyl’s judgment had weight.  As soon as she found herself on the stairs, amid perfumes and brilliances, she breathed freely; it was the old familiar atmosphere; her heart leaped with a sudden joy, as in a paradise regained.