Alma surveyed the book-shelves, and took down volumes with an air of interest; she looked over a portfolio of photographs, inspected mementoes of travel from Cyprus, Palestine, Bagdad.  Mrs. Frothingham noted to herself how dusty everything was.

‘That woman neglects him scandalously,’ she said afterwards to Alma.  ’I wish I had to look after her when she is at work.’

‘I didn’t notice any neglect.  The tea wasn’t very well made, perhaps.’

’My dear child! the room is in a disgraceful state —­ never dusted, never cleaned —­ oh dear!’

Alma laughed.

’I’m quite sure, Mamma, you are much happier now —­ in one way —­ than when you never had to think of such things.  You have a genius for domestic operations.  When I have a house of my own I shall be rather afraid of you.’

‘Oh, of course you will have good servants, my dear.’

’How often have I to tell you, Mamma, that we’re not going to live in that way at all!  The simplest possible furniture, the simplest possible meals —­ everything subordinate to the higher aims and pleasures.’

’But you must have servants, Alma!  You can’t sweep the rooms yourself, and do the cooking?’

‘I’m thinking about it,’ the girl answered gravely.  ’Of course, I shall not waste my time in coarse labour; but I feel sure we shall need only one servant —­ a competent, trustworthy woman, after your own heart.  It’s snobbish to be ashamed of housework; there are all sorts of things I should like to do, and that every woman is better for doing.’

’That is very true indeed, Alma.  I can’t say how I admire you for such thoughts.  But ——­’

’The thing is to reduce such work to the strictly necessary.  Think of all the toil that is wasted in people’s houses, for foolish display and luxury.  We sweep all that away at one stroke!  Wait till you see.  I’m thinking it out, making my plans.’

In the pleasant little drawing-room, by the fireside (for it was now October and chilly), Harvey and Alma had long, long conversations.  Occasionally they said things that surprised each other and led to explanations, debates, but harmony was never broken.  Rolfe came away ever more enslaved; more impressed by the girl’s sweet reasonableness, and exalted by her glowing idealism.  Through amorous mists he still endeavoured to discern the real Alma; he reflected ceaselessly upon her character; yet, much as she often perplexed him, he never saw reason to suspect her of disingenuousness.  At times she might appear to excite herself unduly, to fall into excess of zeal; it meant, no doubt, that the imaginative fervour she had been wont to expend on music was turned in a new quarter.  Alma remained herself —­ impulsive, ardent, enthusiastic, whether yearning for public triumphs, or eager to lead a revolution in domestic life.  Her health manifestly improved; languor was unknown to her; her cheeks had a warmer hue, a delicate carnation, subtly answering to her thoughts.