er light. You mustn't think I'm joking.'

'But it _is_ rather a joke.'

'No; I never was more in earnest about anything, believe me. And I'm
convinced it's a good idea. However, you know one thing--if I can be of
use to you, I shall. I'll think it over--your chances and so on;
something may suggest itself. You're not cut out for everyday things.'

'I try to hope not.'

'Ah, but you can take my word for it.'

With this comforting assurance, Felix Dymes departed. No melodrama; a
hand-grip, a significant nod, a loud humming as he went downstairs.

Alma presently began a new letter to Sibyl Carnaby. It was written in a
cheery humour, though touched by the shadow of distressful
circumstance. She told the story of Mr. Dymes's visit, and made merry
over it. 'I am sure this is the very newest thing in "proposals".
Though I live in such a dull, lonely way, it has made me feel that I am
still in touch with civilisation. And really, if the worst come to the
worst--but it's dangerous to joke about such things.' She touched
lightly on the facts of her position. 'I'm afraid I have not been doing
very much. Perhaps this is a fallow time with me; I may be gaining
strength for great achievements. Unfortunately, I have a lazy
companion. Miss Steinfeld (you know her from my last letter, if you got
it) only pretends to work. I like her for her thorough goodness and her
intelligence; but she is just a little _melancholisch_, and so not
exactly the companion I need. Her idea just now is that we both need
"change" and she wants me to go with her to Bregenz, on the Bodensee.
Perhaps I shall when the weather gets hot.'

It had surprised her to be told by Felix Dymes that he obtained her
address at Munich from Miss Leach, for the only person in England to
whom she had yet made known her departure from Leipzig was her
step-mother. Speak of her how they might, her acquaintances in London
still took trouble to inform themselves of her movements. Perhaps the
very completeness of the catastrophe in which she was involved told in
her favour; possibly she excited much more interest than could ever
have attached to her whilst her name was respected. There was new life
in the thought. She wrote briefly to Dora Leach, giving an account of
herself, which, though essentially misleading, was not composed in a
spirit of conscious falsehood. For all her vanity, Alma had never aimed
at effect by practice of deliberate insincerities. Miss Leach was
infor