not believe it,’ she said to him in a moment of confidence, ‘but I assure you I am a very good cook.’  Rolfe did not quite credit the assurance, but he felt it not improbable that Mrs. Frothingham would accept a reverse of fortune with much practical philosophy; he could imagine her brightening a small house with the sweetness of her disposition, and falling to humble duties with sprightly goodwill.  In this point she was a noteworthy exception among the prosperous women of his acquaintance.

‘And what have you been doing?’ she asked, not as a mere phrase of civility, but in a voice and which a look of genuine interest.

‘Wasting my time, for the most part.’

’So you always say; but it can’t be true.  I know the kind of man who wastes his time, and you’re not a bit like him.  Nothing would gratify my curiosity more than to be able to watch you through a whole day.  What did you think of the quartet?’

‘Capital!’

’I’m sure they would make wonderful progress, and Alma does work so hard!  I’m only afraid she may injure her health.’

‘I see no sign of it yet.’

‘She’s certainly looking very well,’ said Mrs. Frothingham, with manifest pride and affection.  Of Alma she always spoke thus; nothing of the step-mother was ever observable.

‘Mr. Frothingham is not here this evening!’

‘I really don’t know why,’ replied the hostess, casting her eyes round the room.  ’I quite expected him.  But he has been dreadfully busy the last few weeks.  And people do worry him so.  Somebody called whilst we were at dinner, and refused to believe that Mr. Frothingham was not at home, and made quite a disturbance at the door —­ so they told me afterwards.  I’m really quite nervous sometimes; crazy people are always wanting to see him —­ people who really ought not to be at large.  No doubt they have had their troubles, poor things; and everybody thinks my husband can make them rich if only he chooses.’

A stout, important-looking man paused before Mrs. Frothingham, and spoke familiarly.

‘I’m looking for B. F. Hasn’t he put in an appearance yet?’

‘I really hope he’s enjoying himself somewhere else,’ replied the hostess, rising, with a laugh.  ‘You leave him no peace.’

The stout man did not smile, but looked gravely for a moment at Rolfe, a stranger to him, and turned away.

Herr Wilenski, the virtuoso, was about to play something; the guests moved to seat themselves.  Rolfe, however, preferred to remain in this room, where he could hear the music sufficiently well.  He had not quite recovered from his chagrin at the interruption of his talk with Alma —­ a foolishness which made him impatient with himself.  At the same time, he kept thinking of the ‘crazy people’ of whom Mrs. Frothingham spoke so lightly.  A man such as Bennet Frothingham must become familiar with many forms of ‘craziness’, must himself be responsible for a good deal of folly such as leads