They did not part in hostility.  Mrs. Strangeways had the best of reasons for averting this issue, at any cost to her own feelings, which for the moment had all but escaped control.  Though the complications of Alma’s character puzzled her exceedingly, she knew how to smooth over the trouble which had so unexpectedly arisen.  Flattery was the secret of her influence with Mrs. Rolfe, and it still availed her.  With ostentation of frankness, she pointed a contrast between Alma and her presumed rival.  Mrs. Carnaby was the corrupt, unscrupulous woman, who shrank from nothing to gratify a base selfishness.  Alma was the artist, pursuing a legitimate ambition, using, as she had a perfect right to do, all her natural resources, but pure in soul.

’Yes, I understand you at last, and I admire you more than ever.  You will go far, my dear.  You have great gifts, and, more than that, you have principle.  It is character that tells in the long run.  And depend upon me.  I shall soon have news for you.  Keep quiet; prepare yourself for next Tuesday.  As for all that —­ leave it to me.’

Scarcely had Alma left the house, when she suddenly stood still, as though she had forgotten something.  Indeed she had.  In the flush of loyal resentment which repelled an imputation upon her husband’s honour, she had entirely lost sight of her secret grievance against Harvey.  Suddenly revived, the memory helped her to beat down that assaulting shame which took advantage of reaction in mind and blood.  Harvey was not honest with her.  Go as far as she might, short of the unpardonable, there still remained to her a moral superiority over the man she defended.  And yet —­ she was glad to have defended him; it gave her a sense of magnanimity.  More than that, the glow of an honest thought was strangely pleasant.

She had sundry people to see and pieces of business to transact.  What a nuisance that she lived so far from the centre of things!  It was this perpetual travelling that had disordered her health, and made everything twice as troublesome as it need be.  Today, again, she had a headache, and the scene with Mrs. Strangeways had made it worse.

In Regent Street she met Dymes.  She was not afraid of him now, for she had learnt how to make him keep his distance; and after the great day, if he continued to trouble her, he might be speedily sent to the right-about.  He made an inspiriting report:  already a considerable number of tickets had been sold —­ enough, he said, or all but enough, to clear expenses.

‘What, advertising and all?’ asked Alma.

’Oh, leave that to me.  Advertising is a work of art.  If you like just to come round to my rooms, I’ll ——­’

‘Haven’t time today.  See you at the Hall on Monday.’

A batch of weekly newspapers which arrived next morning, Saturday, proved to her that Dymes was sufficiently active.  There were more paragraphs; there were two reproductions of her portrait; and as for advertisements, she tried, with some anxiety, to conjecture the cost of these liberal slices of page, with their eye-attracting type.  Naturally the same question would occur to her husband, but Harvey kept his word; whatever he thought, he said nothing.  And Alma found it easier to be good-humoured with him than at any time since she had read Mary Abbott’s letter; perhaps yesterday’s event accounted for it.