in promoting her success.  For among the impulses which urged her forward, her reasons for desiring a public triumph, was one which Harvey perhaps never for a moment imagined —­ a desire to shine gloriously in the eyes of her husband.  Harvey would never do her justice until constrained by the voice of the world.  Year after year he held her in less esteem; he had as good as said that he did not think her capable of taking a place among professional violinists.  Disguise it how he might, he secretly wished her to become a mere domestic creature, to abandon hopes that were nothing better than a proof of vanity.  This went to Alma’s heart, and rankled there.  He should see!  He should confess his error, in all its injurious and humiliating extent!  At whatever cost —­ at all but any cost —­ the day of her triumph should come about!  Foreseeing it, she had less difficulty in keeping calm when the excellencies of Mrs. Abbott were vaunted before her, when Harvey simply ignored all that in herself compensated the domestic shortcoming.  Of course, she was not a model of the home-keeping virtues; who expected an artist to be that?  But Harvey denied this claim; and of all the motives contributing to her aspiration, none had such unfailing force as the vehement resolve to prove him wrong.

Next morning the weather was so bad that Harvey asked whether she had not better give up her expedition to the Crystal Palace.  Alma smiled and shook her head.

’You think I go only for amusement.  It’s so difficult to make you understand that these things are serious.’

’Congestion of the lungs is serious.  I don’t think Mrs. Frothingham will face it.  There’ll probably be a telegram from her.’

But by midday the fierce wind and driving sleet had abated, though the outlook remained cheerless enough.  After an early lunch, Alma set forth.  Dora Leach joined her in the train, and thus they travelled, through sooty gloom, under or above ground, from the extreme north to the farthest south of London; alighting at length with such a ringing of the ears, such an impression of roar and crash and shriek, as made the strangest prelude to a feast of music ever devised in the world’s history.  Their seats having been taken in advance, they entered a few moments before the concert began, and found themselves amid a scanty audience; on either side of them were vacant places.  Alma did not dare to glance round about.  If Redgrave were here, and looked for her, he would have no difficulty in discovering where she sat; probably, too, he could manage to take possession of the chair at her side.  And this was exactly what happened, though not until the first piece had been performed.

‘I congratulate you on your zeal,’ spoke the voice which always put her in mind of sunny mountains and a blue lake.

‘Inviting a compliment in return,’ said Alma, with a sudden illumination of her features.  ‘Are you one of the regular attendants?’