t this form of pleasure soon wearied
him, and he was glad to escape from London in June. He knew the shadowy
and intermittent temptation which beckoned him to that house; music had
power over him, and he grew conscious of watching Alma Frothingham, her
white little chin on the brown fiddle, with too exclusive an interest.
When 'that fellow' Cyrus Redgrave, a millionaire, or something of the
sort, began to attend these gatherings with a like assiduity, and to
win more than his share of Miss Frothingham's conversation, Harvey felt
a disquietude which happily took the form of disgust, and it was easy
enough to pack his portmanteau.

Through the babble of many voices in many keys, talk mingling with
laughter more or less melodiously subdued, he made his way up the great
staircase. As he neared the landing, there sounded the shrill squeak of
a violin and a 'cello's deep harmonic growl. His hostess, small,
slender, fair, and not yet forty, a jewel-flash upon her throat and in
the tiara above her smooth low forehead, took a step forward to greet
him.

'Really? How delightful! I shot at a venture, and it was a hit after
all!'

'They are just beginning?'

'The quartet--yes. Herr Wilenski has promised to play afterwards.'

He moved on, crossed a small drawing-room, entered the larger room
sacred to music, and reached a seat in the nick of time. Miss
Frothingham, the violin against her shoulder, was casting a final
glance at the assembly, the glance which could convey a noble severity
when it did not forthwith impose silence. A moment's perfect stillness,
and the quartet began. There were two ladies, two men. Miss Frothingham
played the first violin, Mr. AEneas Piper the second; the 'cello was in
the hands of Herr Gassner, and the viola yielded its tones to Miss Dora
Leach. Harvey knew them all, but had eyes only for one; in truth, only
one rewarded observation. Miss Leach was a meagre blonde, whose form,
face, and attitude enhanced by contrast the graces of the First Violin.
Alma's countenance shone--possibly with the joy of the artist, perhaps
only with gratified vanity. As she grew warm, the rosy blood mantled in
her cheeks and flushed her neck. Every muscle and nerve tense as the
strings from which she struck music, she presently swayed forward on
the points of her feet, and seemed to gain in stature, to become a more
commanding type. Her features suggested neither force of intellect or
originality of character: but they