‘I am thinking so much about Alma,’ pursued the widow, recovering self-command.  ’I am so uncertain about my duty to her.  Of her own, she has nothing; but I know, of course, that her father wished her to share in what he gave me.  It is strange, Mr. Rolfe, that I should be talking to you as if you were a relative —­ as if I had a right to trouble you with these things.  But if you knew how few people I dare speak to.  Wasn’t it so much better for her to lead a very quiet life?  And so I gave her only a little money, only enough to live upon in the simplest way.  I hoped she would get tired of being among strangers, and come back.  And now I fear she thinks I have behaved meanly and selfishly.  And we were always so kindly disposed to each other, such thorough friends; never a word that mightn’t have passed between a mother and her own child.’

‘I gathered from her letter,’ interposed Harvey, ’that she was well contented and working hard at her music.’

’Do you think so?  I began to doubt —­ she wrote in low spirits.  Of course, one can’t say whether she would succeed as a violinist.  Oh, I don’t like to think of it!  I must tell you that I haven’t said a word to her yet of what I am doing; I mean, about the money.  I know I ought to consider her as much as other people.  Poor girl, who has suffered more, and in so many ways?  But I think of what I keep for myself as hers.  I was not brought up in luxury, Mr. Rolfe.  It wouldn’t seem to me hard to live on a very little.  But in this, too, I must consider Alma.  I daren’t lose all my acquaintances.  I must keep a home for Alma, and a home she wouldn’t feel ashamed of.  Here, you see, she could have her friends.  I have thought of going to Leipzig; but I had so much rather she came to London —­ if only for us just to talk and understand each other.’

Harvey preserved the gravest demeanour.  Of Alma he would not permit himself to speak, save in answer to a direct question; and that was not long in coming.

‘I am sure you think I should be quite open with her?’

‘That would seem to me the best.’

’Yes; she shall know all my thoughts.  But with regard to Mrs. Abbott, I know so well what she would say.  I beg you to do me that kindness, Mr Rolfe.’

‘I will write to Mrs. Abbott at once.’

The interview was at an end; neither had anything more to say.  They parted with looks of much mutual kindliness, Harvey having promised to make another call when Mrs. Abbott’s reply had reached him.

After exchanging letters with Mrs. Abbott, Harvey went over to see her; for the sake of both persons concerned, he resolved to leave no possibility of misunderstanding.  A few days passed in discussions and reflections, then, at the customary hour for paying calls, he again ascended the many stairs to Mrs. Frothingham’s flat.  It had rained all day, and in this weather there seemed a certainty that the lady would be at home.  But, as he approached the door, Harvey heard a sound from within which discomposed him.  Who, save one person, was likely to be playing on the violin in these rooms?  He paused, cast about him a glance of indecision, and finally pressed the electric bell.