Putney?'

'About a hundred and twenty. Compliments showered on me; I do so wish
you could have heard them. Somebody told me that some man asked her how
it was he didn't know my name--he took me for a professional violinist.'

'Well, no doubt you are as good as many of them.'

'You really think that?' said Alma, pulling her chair a little nearer
to the fire and looking eagerly at him.

'Why shouldn't you be? You have the same opportunities, and make all
possible use of them.'

Alma was silent for a few ticks of the clock. Once, and a second time,
she stole a glance at Harvey's face; then grasping with each hand the
arms of her chair, and seeming to string herself for an effort, she
spoke in a half-jesting tone.

'What should you say if I proposed to come out--to _be_ a professional?'

Harvey's eyes turned slowly upon her; he read her face with curiosity,
and did not smile.

'Do you mean you have thought of it?'

'To tell you the truth, it is so often put into my head by other
people. I am constantly being asked why I'm content to remain an
amateur.'

'By professional musicians?'

'All sorts of people.'

'It reminds me of something. You know I don't interfere; I don't
pretend to have you in surveillance, and don't wish to begin it. But
are you quite sure that you are making friends in the best class that
is open to you?'

Alma's smile died away. For a moment she recovered the face of years
gone by; a look which put Harvey in mind of Mrs. Frothingham's little
drawing-room at Swiss Cottage, where more than once Alma had gazed at
him with a lofty coldness which concealed resentment. That expression
could still make him shrink a little and feel uncomfortable. But it
quickly faded, giving place to a look of perfectly amiable protest.

'My dear Harvey, what has caused you to doubt it?'

'I merely asked the question. Perhaps it occurred to me that you were
not exactly in your place among people who talk to you in that way.'

'You must allow for my exaggeration,' said Alma softly. 'One or two
have said it--just people who know most about music. And there's a
_way_ of putting things.'

'Was Mrs. Carnaby there today?'

'No.'

'You don't see her very often now?'

'Perhaps not _quite_ so often. I suppose the reason is that I am more
drawn to the people who care about music. Sibyl really isn't
musical--though, of course, I like her as much as ever. Then--the truth
is, she seems to have grown rather extravaga