‘I only show my ignorance when I talk of music.  Of course, I liked it.’

‘Ah! then you didn’t think it very good.  I see ——­’

‘But I did!  Only my opinion is worthless.’

Alma looked at him, seemed to hesitate, laughed; and Harvey felt the conviction that, by absurd sincerity, he had damaged himself in the girl’s eyes.  What did it matter?

‘I’ve been practising five hours a day,’ said Alma, in rapid, ardent tones.  Her voice was as pleasant to the ear as her face to look upon; richly feminine, a call to the emotions.  ‘That isn’t bad, is it?’

‘Tremendous energy!’

’Oh, music is my religion, you know.  I often feel sorry I haven’t to get my living by it; it’s rather wretched to be only an amateur, don’t you think?’

‘Religion shouldn’t be marketable,’ joked Harvey.

’Oh, but you know what I mean.  You are so critical, Mr. Rolfe.  I’ve a good mind to ask Father to turn me out of house and home, with just half-a-crown.  Then I might really do something.  It would be splendid! —­ Oh, what do you think of that shameful affair in Hamilton Terrace?  Mrs Carnaby takes it like an angel.  They’re going to give up housekeeping.  Very sensible, I say.  Everybody will do it before long.  Why should we be plagued with private houses?’

‘There are difficulties ——­’

’Of course there are, and men seem to enjoy pointing them out.  They think it a crime if women hate the bother and misery of housekeeping.’

‘I am not so conservative.’

He tried to meet her eyes, which were gleaming fixedly upon him; but his look fell, and turned as quickly from the wonderful white shoulders, the throbbing throat, the neck that showed its colour against swan’s-down.  To his profound annoyance, someone intervened —­ a lady bringing someone else to be introduced.  Rolfe turned on his heel, and was face to face with Cyrus Redgrave.  Nothing could be suaver or more civil than Mr Redgrave’s accost; he spoke like a polished gentleman, and, for aught Harvey knew, did not misrepresent himself.  But Rolfe had a prejudice; he said as little as possible, and moved on.

In the smaller drawing-room he presently conversed with his hostess.  Mrs Frothingham’s sanguine and buoyant temper seemed proof against fatigue; at home or as a guest she wore the same look of enjoyment; vexations, rivalries, responsibilities, left no trace upon her beaming countenance.  Her affections were numberless; her ignorance, as an observer easily discovered, was vast and profound; but the desire to please, the tact of a ’gentlewoman, and thorough goodness of heart, appeared in all her sayings and doings; she was never offensive, never wholly ridiculous.  Small-talk flowed from her with astonishing volubility, tone and subject dictated by the characteristics of the person with whom she gossiped; yet her preference was for talk on homely topics, reminiscences of a time when she knew not luxury.  ‘You may