Having made an appointment with Dora for next Saturday, Alma took leave, and went home in excellent spirits.  Everything seemed to plan itself; the time had come, the moment of destiny.  Doubtless she had been wise in waiting thus long.  Had she come forward only a year or so after her father’s tragedy, people might have said she was making profit of a vulgar sensation; it would have seemed in bad taste; necessity would have appeared to urge her.  Now, such remarks were impossible.  Mrs. Harvey Rolfe sounded much better than Miss Alma Frothingham.  By-the-bye, was it to be ‘Mrs.’, or ought she to call herself ‘Madame’?  People did use the Madame, even with an English name.  Madame Rolfe?  Madame Harvey Rolfe?  That made her laugh; it had a touch of the ridiculous; it suggested millinery rather than music.  Better to reject such silly affectations and use her proper name boldly.

It was to be expected, of course, that people in general would soon discover her maiden name.  Whispers would go round; facts might even get into the newspapers.  Well?  She herself had done nothing to be ashamed of, and if curiosity helped her to success, why, so much the better.  In all likelihood it would help her; but she did not dwell upon this adventitious encouragement.  A more legitimate source of hope revealed itself in Mrs. Strangeways’ allusion to her personal advantages.  She was not ill-looking; on that point there needed no flatterer’s assurance.  Her looks, if anything, had improved, and possibly she owed something to her experiment in ‘simplicity’, to the air of mountain and of sea.  Felix Dymes, Cyrus Redgrave, not to speak of certain other people —­ no matter.  For all that, she must pay grave attention to the subject of dress.  Her recital would doubtless be given in the afternoon, according to custom; so that it was not a case of grande tenue; but her attire must be nothing short of perfection in its kind.  Could she speak about it with Sibyl?  Perhaps —­ yet perhaps not.  She was very anxious to see Sibyl, and felt that a great deal depended upon their coming interview.

This took place on Tuesday; for Sibyl replied at once to the note, and begged her to come without delay.  ’Tuesday at twelve.  I do little in these gloomy days but read —­ am becoming quite a bookworm.  Why have you been silent so long?  I was on the very point of writing to you, for I wish to see you particularly.’

And, when the servant opened her door, Sibyl was discovered in the attitude of a severe student, bending over a table on which lay many volumes.  She would not have been herself had there appeared any neglect or unbecomingness in her costume, but she wore the least pretentious of morning gowns, close at throat and wrist, which aided her look of mental concentration and alertness.  She rose with alacrity, and the visitor, using her utmost keenness in scrutiny of countenance, found that her own eyes, not Sibyl’s, were the first to fall.