nely attracted to her. What circumstances had led, or forced, Mrs.
Strangeways into this peculiar position, Alma could not discover; it
might be simply one result of an unfortunate marriage, for undoubtedly
there was something sinister in the husband, a coarseness varnished
with sham geniality, which made Alma dislike to be near him. In the
woman herself she found little that was objectionable; her foolish
effusiveness, and her artificial complexion, seemed to indicate merely
a weak character; at times her talk was interesting, and she knew many
people of a class superior to that represented in her drawing-room. But
for the illumination she had received, Alma would have felt surprised
at meeting Cyrus Redgrave in these assemblies; formerly she had thought
of him as belonging to a sphere somewhat above her own, a
quasi-aristocratic world, in which Sibyl Carnaby, the daughter of Mrs.
Ascott Larkfield, also moved by right of birth and breeding. Sibyl,
however, was not above accepting Mrs. Strangeways' invitations, though
she continued to speak of her slightingly; and Redgrave had known the
lady for a long time--even, it appeared, before her first marriage.

In a year's time Alma had made and renewed a large number of
acquaintances. She spoke of herself as living 'in the country', and
still professed a dislike of mere gaiety, a resolve to maintain her
simple, serious mode of existence. At half-an-hour's journey from town,
she was protected against the time-wasting intrusion of five-o'clock
babblers; a luncheon or two in the season, and a modest dinner at long
intervals, would discharge her social liabilities; and she had the
precious advantage of being able to use London for all legitimate
purposes, without danger of being drawn into the vortex of its idle
temptations. Once more she was working earnestly at her music--much, it
seemed, to Harvey's satisfaction. He wanted her to go on also with
water-colours, but she pointed out to him that one art was all she had
time for.

'It's all very well for mere amateurs to take up half-a-dozen things. I
aim at more than that. You would like me, wouldn't you, to become
really _something_ as a violinist?'

Harvey assented.

'And you understand,' she pursued, regarding him with her bright smile,
'that the life of an artist can't be quite like that of other women?'

'Of course, I understand it. You know I don't wish to put the least
restraint upon you.'

'My one fear was, that you