e
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.

Mrs. Frothingham was not at home. She might return very shortly.

'Is--Miss Frothingham at home?'

The servant did not straightway admit him, but took his name. On his
entering the drawing-room, three figures appeared before him. He saw
Alma; he recognised Miss Leach; the third lady was named to him as Miss
Leach's sister.

'You knew I was in London?' Alma remarked rather than inquired.

'I had no idea of it--until I heard your violin.'

'My violin, but not my playing. It was Miss Leach.'

From the first word--her 'Ah, how d'you do' as he entered--Alma's tone
and manner appeared to him forced, odd, unlike anything he remembered
of her. In correcting him, she gave a hard, short laugh, glancing at
Dora Leach in a way verging upon the ill-bred. Her look ha