ed, I have no
right to complain.'

'Indeed, I don't think you have,' replied Alma, putting severe
restraint upon herself to speak calmly. Thereupon she left the room.

Harvey rose to follow her. He took a step forward--stood
still--returned to his chair. And they did not see each other again
that night.

In the morning came a letter from Dymes. He wrote that a certain
newspaper wished for an 'interview' with Mrs. Rolfe, to be published
next week. Should the interviewer call upon her, and, if so, when?
Moreover, an illustrated paper wanted her portrait with the least
possible delay. Were her new photographs ready? If so, would she send
him a dozen? Better still if he could see her today, for he had
important things to speak of. Might he look for her at Mrs.
Littlestone's at about four o'clock?

At breakfast Alma was chatty, but she directed her talk almost
exclusively to Pauline Smith and to little Hugh, who now had his place
at table--a merry, sunny-haired little fellow, dressed in a sailor
suit. Harvey also talked a good deal--he, too, with Pauline and the
child. When Alma rose he followed her, and asked her to come into the
library for a moment.

'I'm a curmudgeon,' he began, facing her with nervous abruptness.
'Forgive me for that foolery last night, will you?'

'Of course,' Alma replied distantly.

'No, but in the same spirit, Alma. I'm an ass! I know that if you do
this thing at all, you must do it in the usual way. I wish you success
heartily, and I'll read with pleasure every scrap of print that praises
you.'

'I'm hurrying to town, Harvey. I have to go to the photographer, and
see Mr. Dymes, and all sorts of things.'

'The photographer? I hope they'll be tolerable; I know they won't do
you justice. Will you sit to a painter if I arrange it? Unfortunately,
I can't afford Millais, you know; but I want a good picture of you.'

'We'll talk about it,' she replied, smiling more pleasantly than of
late. 'But I really haven't time now.'

'And you forgive me my idiotics?'

She nodded and was gone.

In the afternoon she met Dymes at Mrs. Littlestone's, a house of much
society, for the most part theatrical. When they had moved aside for
private talk, he began by asking a brusque question.

'Who got that notice for you into the _West End_?'

'Why, didn't you?'

'Know nothing about it. Come, who was it?'

'I have no idea. I took it for granted----'

'Look here, Alma, I think I'm not doing badly for y