Alma had not the habit of telling falsehoods to her husband, but she did it remarkably well —­ even better, perhaps, than when she deceived her German friend, Fraulein Steinfeld, in the matter of Cyrus Redgrave’s proposal; the years had matured her, endowing her with superior self-possession, and a finish of style in dealing with these little difficulties.  She was unwilling to say that she had dined in Porchester Terrace, for Harvey entertained something of a prejudice against that household.  His remoteness nowadays from the world in which Alma amused herself made it quite safe to venture on a trifling misstatement.

‘I have a note from Carnaby,’ said Rolfe.  ’He wants to see me in town tomorrow.  Says he has good news —­ “devilish good news”, to be accurate.  I wonder what it is.’

‘The lawsuit won, perhaps.’

’Afraid not; that’ll take a few more years.  Odd thing, I have another letter —­ from Cecil Morphew, and he, too, says that he has something hopeful to tell me about.’

Alma clapped her hands, an unusual expression of joy for her.  ’We are cheering up all round!’ she exclaimed.  ’Now, if only you could light on something fortunate.’

He gave her a quick look.

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Only that you haven’t seemed in very good spirits lately.’

‘Much as usual, I think. —­ Many people at Putney?’

’About a hundred and twenty.  Compliments showered on me; I do so wish you could have heard them.  Somebody told me that some man asked her how it was he didn’t know my name —­ he took me for a professional violinist.’

‘Well, no doubt you are as good as many of them.’

‘You really think that?’ said Alma, pulling her chair a little nearer to the fire and looking eagerly at him.

’Why shouldn’t you be?  You have the same opportunities, and make all possible use of them.’

Alma was silent for a few ticks of the clock.  Once, and a second time, she stole a glance at Harvey’s face; then grasping with each hand the arms of her chair, and seeming to string herself for an effort, she spoke in a half-jesting tone.

’What should you say if I proposed to come out —­ to be a professional?’

Harvey’s eyes turned slowly upon her; he read her face with curiosity, and did not smile.

‘Do you mean you have thought of it?’

’To tell you the truth, it is so often put into my head by other people.  I am constantly being asked why I’m content to remain an amateur.’

‘By professional musicians?’

‘All sorts of people.’

’It reminds me of something.  You know I don’t interfere; I don’t pretend to have you in surveillance, and don’t wish to begin it.  But are you quite sure that you are making friends in the best class that is open to you?’

Alma’s smile died away.  For a moment she recovered the face of years gone by; a look which put Harvey in mind of Mrs. Frothingham’s little drawing-room at Swiss Cottage, where more than once Alma had gazed at him with a lofty coldness which concealed resentment.  That expression could still make him shrink a little and feel uncomfortable.  But it quickly faded, giving place to a look of perfectly amiable protest.