‘Don’t you remember?’ His voice dropped so low that he hardly seemed to address her.  ‘I promised myself the pleasure ——­’

Alma pretended not to hear.  She turned to her companion, spoke a word, and renewed the very slight acquaintance which had existed a few years ago between Redgrave and Miss Leach.  Then the sound of an instrument imposed silence.

It was not the first time that Alma affected to be absorbed in music when not consciously hearing it at all.  Today the circumstances made such distraction pardonable; but often enough she had sat thus, with countenance composed or ecstatic, only seeming to listen, even when a master played.  For Alma had no profound love of the art.  Nothing more natural than her laying it completely aside when, at home in Wales, she missed her sufficient audience.  To her, music was not an end in itself.  Like numberless girls, she had, to begin with, a certain mechanical aptitude, which encouraged her through the earlier stages, until vanity stepped in and urged her to considerable attainments.  Her father’s genuine delight in music of the higher kind served as an encouragement whenever her own energies began to fail; and when at length, with advancing social prospects, the thought took hold of her that, by means of her violin, she might maintain a place of distinction above ordinary handsome girls and heiresses, it sufficed to overcome her indolence and lack of the true temper.  She founded her Quartet Society, and queened it over amateurs, some of whom were much better endowed than herself.  Having set her pride on winning praise as a musician, of course she took pains, even working very hard from time to time.  She had first-rate teachers, and was clever enough to profit by their lessons.  With it all, she cared as little for music as ever; to some extent it had lost even that power over her sensibilities which is felt by the average hearer.  Alma had an emotional nature, but her emotions responded to almost any kind of excitement sooner than to the musical.  So much had she pretended and posed, so much had she struggled with mere manual difficulties, so much lofty cant and sounding hollowness had she talked, that the name of her art was grown a weariness, a disgust.  Conscious of this, she was irritated whenever Harvey begged her to play simple things; for indeed, if she must hear music at all, it was just those simple melodies she would herself have preferred.  And among the self-styled musical people with whom she associated, were few, if any, in whom conceit did not sound the leading motive.  She knew but one true musician, Herr Wilenski.  That the virtuoso took no trouble to bring her in touch with his own chosen circle, was a significant fact which quite escaped Alma’s notice.

Between the pieces Redgrave chatted in a vein of seductive familiarity, saying nothing that Dora Leach might not have heard, but frequently softening his voice, as though to convey intimate meanings.  His manner had the charm of variety; he was never on two occasions alike; today he seemed to relax in a luxurious mood, due in part to the influence of sound, and in part, as his eyes declared, to the sensuous pleasure of sitting by Alma’s side.