'It's fortunate,' said Alma, as the carriage bore her away, 'that we had this adventure with a _gentleman_.' The remark sounded surprising to Mrs. Strangeways. 'I'm so glad you have quite got over your annoyance, dear,' she replied. 'It was as bad for you as for me, under the circumstances. But I'm sure Mr. Redgrave won't give it another thought.' And Alma chatted very pleasantly all the way back to town, where she dined with Mrs. Strangeways. At eleven o'clock she reached home. Her husband, who was recovering from a sore throat, sat pipeless and in no very cheerful mood by the library fire; but the sight of Alma's radiant countenance had its wonted effect upon him; he stretched his arms, as if to rouse himself from a long fit of reverie, and welcomed her in a voice that was a little husky. 'Well, how did it go?' 'Not badly, I think. And how have you been getting on, poor old boy?' 'So so; swearing a little because I couldn't smoke. But Hughie has a cold tonight; caught mine, I dare say, confound it! Miss Smith took counsel with me about it, and we doctored him a little.' 'Poor dear little man! I wish I had been back in time to see him. But there was no getting away--had to stay to dinner----' Alma had not the habit of telling falsehoods to her husband, but she did it remarkably well--even better, perhaps, than when she deceived her German friend, Fraulein Steinfeld, in the matter of Cyrus Redgrave's proposal; the years had matured her, endowing her with superior self-possession, and a finish of style in dealing with these little difficulties. She was unwilling to say that she had dined in Porchester Terrace, for Harvey entertained something of a prejudice against that household. His remoteness nowadays from the world in which Alma amused herself made it quite safe to venture on a trifling misstatement. 'I have a note from Carnaby,' said Rolfe. 'He wants to see me in town tomorrow. Says he has good news--"devilish good news", to be accurate. I wonder what it is.' 'The lawsuit won, perhaps.' 'Afraid not; that'll take a few more years. Odd thing, I have another letter--from Cecil Morphew, and he, too, says that he has something hopeful to tell me about.' Alma clapped her hands, an unusual expression of joy for her. 'We are cheering up all round!' she exclaimed. 'Now, if only _you_ could light on something fortunate.' He gave her a quick look. 'What do you mean by that?' 'Only that you haven't seemed in very good spirits lately.' 'Much as usual, I think.--Many people at 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.