Her brain grew confused with interpreting and picturing.  But once more she had made an advance in self-esteem.  She could await the next meeting with a confidence and pride very unlike her sensations in the Stiglmeyerplatz at Munich.

It took place on the second day.  This time Redgrave did not wait upon accident; he sent a note, begging that he might have the pleasure of another talk with her.  He would call at a certain hour, and take his chance of finding her at home.  When he presented himself, Alma was sitting in the common room of the pension with two German ladies; they in a few minutes withdrew, and familiar conversation became possible.  As the windows stood open, and there were chairs upon the balcony, Redgrave shortly proposed a move in that direction.  They sat together for half an hour.

When Redgrave took his leave, it was without shaking of hands —­ with no Auf Wiedersehen.  He smiled, he murmured civilities; Alma neither smiled nor spoke.  She was pale, and profoundly agitated.

So this was his meaning? —­ made plain enough at last, though with the most graceful phrasing.  Childish vanity and ignorance had forbidden her to dream of such an issue.  She had not for a moment grasped the significance to a man of the world of the ruin and disgrace fallen upon her family.  In theory she might call herself an exile from the polite world; none the less did she imagine herself still illumined by the social halo, guarded by the divinity which doth hedge a member of the upper-middle class.  Was she not a lady?  And who had ever dared to offer a lady an insult such as this?  Shop-girls, minor actresses, the inferior sort of governess, must naturally be on their guard; their insecurity was traditional; novel and drama represented their moral vicissitudes.  But a lady, who had lived in a great house with many servants, who had founded an Amateur Quartet Society, the hem of whose garment had never been touched with irreverent finger —­ could she stand in peril of such indignity?

Not till now had she called to mind the forewarnings of Sibyl Carnaby, which, at the time of hearing them, she did not at all understand.  ‘People,’ said Sibyl, ‘would approach her with strange ideas.’  This she might have applied to the grotesque proposal (as it seemed to her) of Felix Dymes, or to the risk of being tempted into premature publicity by a business offer from some not very respectable impresario.  What Sibyl meant was now only too clear; but how little could Mrs. Carnaby have imagined that her warning would be justified by one of her own friends —­ by a man of wealth and consideration.

She durst not leave the house for fear of encountering Redgrave, who, if they crossed by chance, might fancy she invited another meeting.  She dreaded the observation of women, especially of Miss Steinfeld.  The only retreat was her bedroom, and here she secluded herself till dinner-time.  At this meal she must needs face the company or incur remark.  She tried to return her friend’s smile with the ordinary unconcern.  After dinner there was no avoiding Miss Steinfeld, whose air of extreme discretion showed that she had an inkling of events, and awaited confidences.