had beauty, and something more. She
stood a fascination, an allurement, to the masculine sense. Harvey
Rolfe had never so responded to this quality in the girl; the smile
died from his face as he regarded her. Of her skill as a musician, he
could form no judgment; but it seemed to him that she played very well,
and he had heard her praised by people who understood the matter; for
instance, Herr Wilenski, the virtuoso, from whom--in itself a great
compliment--Alma was having lessons.

He averted his eyes, and began to seek for known faces among the
audience. His host he could not discover; Mr. Frothingham must be away
from home this evening; it was seldom he failed to attend Alma's
concerts. But near the front sat Mrs. Ascott Larkfield, a dazzling
figure, and, at some distance, her daughter Mrs. Carnaby, no shadow of
gloom upon her handsome features. Hugh was not in sight; probably he
felt in no mood for parties. Next to Mrs. Carnaby sat 'that fellow',
Cyrus Redgrave, smiling as always, and surveying the people near him
from under drooping brows, his head slightly bent. Mr. Redgrave had
thin hair, but a robust moustache and a short peaked beard; his
complexion was a rifle sallow; he lolled upon the chair, so that, at
moments, his head all but brushed Mrs. Carnaby's shoulder.

Long before the close of the piece, Rolfe had ceased to listen, his
thoughts drifting hither and hither on a turbid flood of emotion.
During the last passage--_Allegro molto leggieramente_--he felt a
movement round about him as a general relief, and when, on the last
note, there broke forth (familiar ambiguity) sounds of pleasure and of
applause, he at once stood up. But he had no intention of pressing into
the throng that rapidly surrounded the musicians. Seeing that Mr.
Redgrave had vacated his place, whilst Mrs. Carnaby remained seated, he
stepped forward to speak with his friend's wife. She smiled up at him,
and lifted a gloved finger.

'No! Please don't!'

'Not sit down by you?'

'Oh, certainly. But I saw condolence in your face, and I'm tired of it.
Besides, it would be mere hypocrisy in you.'

Harvey gave a silent laugh. He had tried to understand Sibyl Carnaby,
and at different times had come to very different conclusions regarding
her. All women puzzled, and often disconcerted, him; with Sibyl he
could never talk freely, knowing not whether to dislike or to admire
her. He was not made on the pattern of Cyrus Redgrave, who probably