ment than was permissible to single young women, and having once
missed the last train, she simply went to a hotel where she was known,
and quietly returned to Pinner next morning. That Mrs. Rolfe had such
complete liberty and leisure seemed to them no subject for remark;
being without cares, she enjoyed life; a matter of course. And she was
so very clever. No wonder Mr. Rolfe (charming man) always had
admiration in his eyes when he looked at her. Some husbands (miserable
churls) can see nothing in their wives, and never think of encouraging
what talent they may have. But when Alma grew a little dissatisfied
with her violin (a 'Vuillaume', which poor Mr. Bennet Frothingham had
given her in the days gone by), Mr. Rolfe did not hesitate to spend
fifty pounds on an instrument more to her liking; and the dear girl
played on it divinely.

There was no shadow of envy in Dora Leach. 'I don't play quite badly,'
she said to Alma. 'Goodness knows, I oughtn't to, after all the lessons
I've had and the pains I've given. But with you it's different, dear.
You know very well that, if you liked, you could become a professional,
and make a name.

'I _might_ have done,' Alma admitted; 'but marriage put an end to that.
You have too much sense to think I mean that I repent it.'

'I don't see why marriage should put an end to it,' urged Dora. 'I'm
quite sure your husband would be very proud if you came out and had a
great success.'

'But if I came out and made a fiasco?'

'You wouldn't.'

That was in the summer of 1890, when the Rolfes had been living at
Pinner for eight months. The new violin (new to her, old and mellow in
itself) had inspired Alma to joyous exertions. Again she took lessons
from Herr Wilenski, who was sparing of compliment, but, by the mere
fact of receiving her at all, showed his good opinion. And many other
people encouraged her in a fine conceit of herself. Mrs. Strangeways
called her 'an unrecognised genius', and worshipped at her feet. To be
sure, one did not pay much attention to Mrs. Strangeways, but it is
sweet to hear such phrases, and twice already, though against her
better judgment, Alma had consented to play at that lady's house.

On both these occasions Cyrus Redgrave was present. Choosing his
moment, he approached her, looked in her face with a certain timidity
to which Alma was not insensible, and spoke as an ordinary
acquaintance. There was no helping it; the man had been formally
introduced, an