Harvey’s countenance changed.

‘Do you mean that you tell them so?’

’Not in any disagreeable way, of course.  It’s so natural, now, for married people to have each their own world.’

‘So it is,’ he acquiesced.

Alma would have gone to Gunnersbury the very next day, but she feared to excite some suspicion in her husband’s mind.  He little imagined her capable of opening his letters, and to be detected in such a squalid misdemeanour would have overwhelmed her with shame.  In a day or two she would be going to Mrs. Rayner Mann’s, to meet a certain musical critic ‘of great influence’, and by leaving home early she could contrive to make a call upon Mrs. Abbott before lunching at Putney.  This she did.  She saw little Minnie Wager, scrutinised the child’s features, and had no difficulty whatever in discerning Harvey’s eyes, Harvey’s mouth.  Why should she have troubled herself to come?  It was very hard to control her indignation.  If Mrs. Abbott thought her rather strange, rather abrupt, what did it matter?

At Mrs. Rayner Mann’s she passed into a soothing and delicious atmosphere.  The influential critic proved to be a very young man, five-and-twenty at most; he stammered with nervousness when first addressing the stranger, but soon gave her to understand, more or less humorously, that his weekly article was ‘quite’ the most important thing in latter-day musical criticism, and that he panted for the opportunity of hearing a new violinist of real promise.  But Alma had not brought her violin; lest she should make herself cheap, she never played now at people’s houses.  The critic had to be satisfied with hearing her talk and gazing upon her beauty.  Alma was become a very fluent talker, and her voice had the quality which fixes attention.  At luncheon, whilst half-a-dozen persons lent willing ear, she compared Sarasate’s playing of Beethoven’s Concerto with that of Joachim, and declared that Sarasate’s cadenza in the first movement, though marvellous for technical skill, was not at all in the spirit of the work.  The influential writer applauded, drawing her on to fresh displays of learning, taste, eloquence.  She had a great deal to say about somebody’s ‘technique of the left hand’, of somebody else’s ‘tonal effects’, of a certain pianist’s ‘warmth of touch’.  It was a truly musical gathering; each person at table had some exquisite phrase to contribute.  The hostess, who played no instrument, but doted upon all, was of opinion that an executant should ’aim at mirroring his own nature in his interpretation of a tone-poem’; whereupon another lady threw out remarks on ‘subjective interpretation’, confessing her preference for a method purely ‘objective’.  The influential critic began to talk about Liszt, with whom he declared that he had been on intimate terms; he grew fervent over the master’s rhapsodies, with their ’clanging rhythm and dithyrambic fury’.

‘I don’t know when I enjoyed myself so much,’ said Alma gaily, as the great young man pressed her hand at parting and avowed himself her devoted admirer.