Alma was growing serious.  These phrases harmonised well enough with her own insubstantial thoughts and idly-gathered notions.  When preparing to escape from England, she had used much the same language.  But, after all, what did it mean?  What, in particular, did Cyrus Redgrave mean, with his expressive eyes, and languid, earnest tone?

’You will say that a girl has few opportunities.  True, thanks to her enslavement by society.’

‘I care nothing for society,’ Alma interposed.

’Good!  I like the sound of that defiance; it has the right ring.  A man hasn’t often the pleasure of hearing that from a woman he can respect.  It’s easy, of course, to defy the laws of a world one doesn’t belong to; but you, who are a queen in your circle, and may throne, at any moment, in a wider sphere —­ it means much when you refuse to bow down before the vulgar idols, to be fettered by superstitions.’

His aim was dark to her, but she tasted the compliment which ignored her social eclipse.  Redgrave’s conversation generally kept on the prosaic levels —­ studiously polite, or suavely cynical.  It was a new experience to see him borne on a wave of rhetoric; yet not borne away, for he spoke with an ease, a self-command, which to older ears would have suggested skill rather than feeling.  He had nothing of the ardour of youth; his poise and deliberation were quite in keeping with the two score years that subtly graved his visage; the passions in him were sportive, half-fantastical, as though, together with his brain, they had grown to a ripe worldliness.  He inspired no distrust; his good nature seemed all-pervading; he had the air of one who lavishes disinterested counsel, and ever so little exalts himself with his facile exuberance of speech.

’I have seen much of artists; known them intimately, and studied their lives.  One and all, they date their success from some passionate experience.  From a cold and conventional existence can come nothing but cold and conventional art.  You left England, broke away from the common routine, from the artificial and the respectable.  That was an indispensable first step, and I have told you how I applauded it.  But you cannot stop at this.  I begin to fear for you.  There is a convention of unconventionality:  poor quarters, hard life, stinted pleasures —­ all that kind of thing.  I fear its effect upon you.’

‘What choice have I?’ exclaimed Alma, moved to familiar frankness.  ’If I am poor, I must live poorly.’

He smiled graciously upon her, and raised his hand almost as though he would touch her with reassuring kindness; but it was only to stroke his trimmed beard.

‘Oh, you have a choice, believe me,’ came his airy answer.  ’There’s no harm in poverty that doesn’t last too long.  You may have profited by it; it is an experience.  But now —­ Don’t let us walk so far as to tire you.  Yes, we will turn.  Variety of life, travel, all sorts of joys and satisfactions —­ these are the things you need.’