Alma's coldness during the last few weeks he had explained to himself as the result of his failure to take interest in her proceedings. He knew that this behaviour on his part was quite illogical; Alma acted with full permission, and he had no right whatever to 'turn grumpy' just because he disliked what she was doing. Only today he had rebuked himself, and meant to make an effort to restore goodwill between them; but these newspaper paragraphs disgusted him. He could not speak as he wished. 'This is your agent's doing, I suppose?' 'Of course. That is his business.' 'Well, I won't say anything about it. If _you_ are satisfied, I have no right to complain.' 'Indeed, I don't think you have,' replied Alma, putting severe restraint upon herself to speak calmly. Thereupon she left the room. Harvey rose to follow her. He took a step forward--stood still--returned to his chair. And they did not see each other again that night. In the morning came a letter from Dymes. He wrote that a certain newspaper wished for an 'interview' with Mrs. Rolfe, to be published next week. Should the interviewer call upon her, and, if so, when? Moreover, an illustrated paper wanted her portrait with the least possible delay. Were her new photographs ready? If so, would she send him a dozen? Better still if he could see her today, for he had important things to speak of. Might he look for her at Mrs. Littlestone's at about four o'clock? At breakfast Alma was chatty, but she directed her talk almost exclusively to Pauline Smith and to little Hugh, who now had his place at table--a merry, sunny-haired little fellow, dressed in a sailor suit. Harvey also talked a good deal--he, too, with Pauline and the child. When Alma rose he followed her, and asked her to come into the library for a moment. 'I'm a curmudgeon,' he began, facing her with nervous abruptness. 'Forgive me for that foolery last night, will you?' 'Of course,' Alma replied distantly. 'No, but in the same spirit, Alma. I'm an ass! I know that if you do this thing at all, you must do it in the usual way. I wish you success heartily, and I'll read with pleasure every scrap of print that praises you.' 'I'm hurrying to town, Harvey. I have to go to the photographer, and see Mr. Dymes, and all sorts of things.' 'The photographer? I hope they'll be tolerable; I know they won't do you justice. Will you sit to a painter if I arrange it? Unfortunately, I can't afford Millais, you know; but I want a good picture of you.' 'We'll talk about it,' she replied, smiling more pleasantly than of late. 'But I really haven't time now.' 'And you forgive me my idiotics?' She nodded and was gone. In the afternoon she met Dymes at Mrs. Littlestone's, a house of much society, for the most part theatrical. When they had moved aside for private talk, he began by asking a brusque question. 'Who got that notice for you into the _West End_?' 'Why, didn't you?' 'Know nothing about it. Come, who was it?'