Meanwhile, Alma did not lack society.  Mrs. Abbott, whom, without change of feeling, she grew accustomed to see frequently, introduced her to the Langland family, and in Mrs. Langland she found a not uncongenial acquaintance.  This lady had known many griefs, and seemed destined to suffer many more; she had wrinkles on her face which should not have been there at forty-five; but no one ever heard her complain or saw her look downhearted.

In her zeal for housewifery, Alma saw much to admire and to imitate in Mrs. Langland.  She liked the good-humoured modesty with which the elder lady always spoke of herself, and was not displeased at observing an air of deference when the conversation turned on such high matters as literature and art.  Mrs. Langland knew all about the recital at Prince’s Hall; she knew, moreover, as appeared from a casual remark one day, that Mrs. Rolfe had skill in ‘landscape painting’.

‘Who told you that?’ asked Alma, with surprise.

’I hope it wasn’t a secret.  Mrs. Abbott spoke of your water-colours once.  She was delighted with them.’

Praise even from Mary Abbott gratified Alma; it surprised her, and she doubted its sincerity, but there was satisfaction in knowing that her fame went abroad among the people at Gunnersbury.  Without admiration she could not live, and nothing so severely tested her resolution to be content with the duties of home as Harvey’s habit of taking all for granted, never remarking upon her life of self-conquest, never soothing her with the flatteries for which she hungered.

She hailed with delight the first visit after several months from her friends Dora and Gerda Leach.  During the summer their father’s health had suffered so severely that the overwrought man found himself compelled to choose between a long holiday abroad and the certainty of complete collapse if he tried to pursue his ordinary life.  The family went away, and returned in November, when it seemed probable that the money-making machine known as Mr. Leach had been put into tolerable working order for another year or so.  Not having seen Alma since her recital, the girls overflowed with talk about it, repeating all the eulogies they had heard, and adding such rapturous laudation of their own that Alma could have hung upon their necks in gratitude.  They found it impossible to believe that she would no more play in public.

‘Oh, but when you are quite well!’ they exclaimed.  ’It would be a shame —­ a sin!’

In writing to them, Alma had put her decision solely on the ground of health.  Now, assuming a countenance of gentle gravity, she made known her higher reasons.

’I have felt it to be my duty.  Remember that I can’t consider myself alone.  I found that I must either devote myself wholly to music or give it up altogether.  You girls can’t very well understand.  When one is a wife and a mother —­ I thought it all over during my illness.  I had been neglecting my husband and Hughie, and it was too bad —­ downright selfishness.  Art and housekeeping won’t go together; I thought they might, butt found my mistake.  Of course, it cost me a struggle, but that’s over.  I have learnt to renounce.’