‘She has only just returned to England,’ Wilfrid remarked

They had heard of Beatrice having been in Florence a week or two prior to their own stay there.  She was travelling with the Baxendales.  Emily was anxious to meet her, and Wilfrid had held out a hope that this might come about in Italy, but circumstances had proved adverse.

‘Have you seen her?’ Emily inquired.

Her husband had not.  He seemed at first a little disinclined to go up for the concert, but on Emily’s becoming silent he hastened to give a cheerful acquiescence.

‘Couldn’t we see her to-morrow?’ she went on to ask.

’No doubt we can.  It’s only the facing of my aunt’s drawing-room on a Sunday afternoon.’

’O, surely that is needless, Wilfrid?  Couldn’t we go and see her quietly?  She would be at home in the morning, I should think.’

‘I should think so.  We’ll make inquiries to-night.’

They left home early in the afternoon and procured tickets on their way from the station to Mr. Athel’s.  Their arrival being quite unexpected, they found that Mr. Athel had loft town for a day or two.  It was all that Emily needed for the completing of her pleasure; her father-in-law was scrupulously polite in his behaviour to her, but the politeness fell a little short as yet of entire ease, and conversation with him involved effort.  She ran a risk of letting Wilfrid perceive the gladness with which she discovered an empty house; he did, in fact, attribute to its true cause the light-heartedness she showed as they sat together at dinner, and smiled to think that he himself shared in the feeling of relief.  There were reasons why he could not look forward to the evening with unalloyed happiness, but the unwonted gaiety which shone on Emily’s face, and gave a new melody to her voice, moved him to tenderness and gratitude.  He felt that it would be well to listen again to the music of that strong heart whose pain had been his bliss.  He overcame his ignoble anxieties and went to the concert as to a sacred office.

Their seats, owing to lateness in applying for them, were not in the best part of the hall; immediately behind them was the first row of a cheaper section, and two men of indifferent behaviour were seated there within ear-shot; they were discussing the various names upon the programme as if for the enlightenment of their neighbours.  When Emily had been sitting for a few minutes, she found that it had been unwise to leave her mantle in the cloak-room; there was a bad draught.  Wilfrid went to recover it.  Whilst waiting, Emily became aware that the men behind her were talking of Miss Redwing; she listened.

‘She’s married, I think, eh?’ said one.

’Was to have been, you mean.  Why, wasn’t it you told me the story?  O no, it was Drummond.  Drummond knows her people, I think.’

‘What story, eh?’

’Why, she was to have married a Member of Parliament; what the deuce was his name?  Something that reminded me of a race-horse, I remember.  Was it Blair?  No—­Athel!  That’s the name.’