, rising, with a laugh. 'You leave him no peace.'

The stout man did not smile, but looked gravely for a moment at Rolfe,
a stranger to him, and turned away.

Herr Wilenski, the virtuoso, was about to play something; the guests
moved to seat themselves. Rolfe, however, preferred to remain in this
room, where he could hear the music sufficiently well. He had not quite
recovered from his chagrin at the interruption of his talk with Alma--a
foolishness which made him impatient with himself. At the same time, he
kept thinking of the 'crazy people' of whom Mrs. Frothingham spoke so
lightly. A man such as Bennet Frothingham must become familiar with
many forms of 'craziness', must himself be responsible for a good deal
of folly such as leads to downright aberration. Recalling Mrs.
Frothingham's innocent curiosity concerning his own life, Harvey
wished, in turn, that it were possible for him to watch and comprehend
the business of a great finance-gambler through one whole day. What
monstrous cruelties and mendacities might underlie the surface of this
gay and melodious existence! Why was the stout man looking for 'B. F.'?
Why did he turn away with such a set countenance? Why was that old bore
at the club in such a fidget about the 'Britannia'?

Ha! There indeed sounded the violin! It needed no technical
intelligence to distinguish between the playing of Wilenski and that of
Alma Frothingham. Her religion, forsooth! Herr Wilenski, one might be
sure, talked little enough about his 'religion'. What did Alma think as
she listened? Was she overcome by the despair of the artist-soul
struggling in its immaturity? Or did she smile, as ever, and
congratulate herself on the five hours a day, and tell herself how soon
she would reach perfection if there were real necessity for it?
Hopeless to comprehend a woman. The senses warred upon the wit; seized
by calenture, one saw through radiant mists.

He did not like the name 'Alma'. It had a theatrical sound, a
suggestion of unreality.

The _maestro_ knew his audience; he played but for a quarter of an
hour, and the babble of tongues began again. Rolfe, sauntering before
the admirable pictures which hung here as a mere symbol of wealth,
heard a voice at his shoulder.

'I'm very thirsty. Will you take me down?'

His heart leapt with pleasure; Alma must have seen it in his eyes as he
turned.

'What did Wilenski play?' he asked confusedly, as they moved towards
the staircase.

'Somet