esk. In a few minutes she had penned a letter, which was held out for
her husband's perusal.

'Admirable!' he exclaimed. 'Couldn't be better. _Nihil quod tetigit non
ornavit_.'

'And pray what does that mean?' asked Alma, her countenance a trifle
perturbed by the emotions which blended with her delight in praise.

'That my wife is the most graceful of women, and imparts to all she
touches something of her own charm.'

'All that?'

'Latin, you must know, is the language of compression.'

They parted with a laugh. As she left the study, Alma saw her little
son just going out; the nurse had placed him in his mail-cart, where he
sat smiling and cooing. Mrs. Frothingham, who delighted in the child,
had made ready for a walk in the same direction, and from the doorway
called to Alma to accompany them.

'I may come after you, perhaps,' was the reply. 'Ta-ta, Hughie!'

With a wave of her hand, Alma passed into the sitting-room, where she
stood at the window, watching till Mrs. Frothingham's sunshade had
disappeared. Then she moved about, like one in search of occupation;
taking up a book only to throw it down again, gazing vacantly at a
picture, or giving a touch to a bowl of flowers. Here, as in the
dining-room, only the absence of conventional superfluities called for
remark; each article of furniture was in simple taste; the result, an
impression of plain elegance. On a little corner table lay Alma's
colour-box, together with a drawing-board, a sketching-block, and the
portfolio which contained chosen examples of her work. Not far away,
locked in its case, lay her violin, the instrument she had been wont to
touch caressingly; today her eyes shunned it.

She went out again into the little hall. The front door stood open;
sunshine flooded the garden; but Alma was not tempted to go forth. All
the walks and drives of the neighbourhood had become drearily familiar;
the meanest of London streets shone by contrast as a paradise in her
imagination. With a deep sigh of ennui, she turned and slowly ascended
the stairs.

Above were six rooms; three of them the principal chambers (her own,
Harvey's, and the guest-room), then the day-nursery, the night nursery,
and the servant's bedroom. On her first coming, she had thought the
house needlessly spacious; now it often seemed to her oppressively
small, there being but one spare room for visitors. She entered her own
room. It could not be called disorderly, yet it lacked that sc