Though but darkly, confusedly, intermittently conscious of the feeling, Alma was at heart dissatisfied with the liberty, the independence, which her husband seemed so willing to allow her.  This, again, helped to confirm the impression that Harvey held her in small esteem.  He did not think it worth while to oppose her; she might go her frivolous way, and he would watch with careless amusement.  At moments, it was true, he appeared on the point of ill-humour; once or twice she had thought (perhaps had hoped) that he could lay down the law in masculine fashion; but no —­ he laughed, and it was over.  When, at the time of her misery in Wales —­ her dim jealousy of Mrs. Abbott, and revolt against the prospect of a second motherhood —­ she had subdued herself before him, spoken and behaved like an everyday dutiful wife, Harvey would have none of it.  He wished —­ was that the reason? —­ to be left alone, not to be worried with her dependence upon him.  That no doubt of her fidelity ever seemed to enter his mind, was capable of anything but a complimentary interpretation; he simply took it for granted that she would be faithful —­ in other words, that she had not spirit or originality enough to defy conventional laws.  To himself, perhaps, he reserved a much larger liberty.  How could she tell where, in what company, his evenings were spent?  More than once he had been away from home all night —­ missed the last train, he said.  Well, it was nothing to her; but his incuriousness as to her own movements began to affect her sensibly, now that she imagined so close a community of thoughts and interests between Harvey and Mary Abbott.

Before his return tonight other letters had arrived for him, and all lay together, as usual, upon his desk.  Alma, trying to wear her customary face, waited for him to mention that he had heard from Gunnersbury, but Harvey said nothing.  He talked, instead, of a letter from Basil Morton, who wanted him to go to Greystone in the spring, with wife and child.

‘You mustn’t count on me,’ said Alma.

’But after your concert —­ recital —­ whatever you call it; it would be a good rest.’

’Oh, I shall be busier than ever.  Mr. Dymes hopes to arrange for me at several of the large towns.’

Harvey smiled, and Alma observed him with irritation she could scarcely repress.  Of course, his smile meant a civil scepticism.

‘By-the-bye,’ he asked, ‘is Dymes the comic opera man?’

’Yes.  I rather wondered, Harvey, whether you would awake to that fact.  He will be one of our greatest composers.’

She went on with enthusiasm, purposely exaggerating Dymes’s merits, and professing a warm personal regard for him.  In the end, Harvey’s eye was upon her, still smiling, but curiously observant.

’Why hasn’t he been here?  Doesn’t he think it odd that you never ask him?’

‘Oh, you know that I don’t care to ask people.  They are aware’ —­ she laughed —­ ‘that my husband is not musical.’