'Only my neuralgic something or other,' she said, in reply to a sympathetic inquiry. 'It's the price one pays for civilisation. I've had two terrible days and nights, but it's over for the present. But for that I should have written to you before. Why, _you_ don't look quite so well as usual. Be careful--do be careful!' 'I mean to be, if people will let me.' 'You have eight days, haven't you? Yes, just eight days. You ought to keep as quiet as possible. We are all doing our best; but, after all, success depends greatly upon yourself, you know.' The voice, as always, seemed to fondle her, but Alma's ear detected the usual insincerity. Mrs. Strangeways spoke in much the same way to numbers of people, yet not quite so caressingly. Some interest she undoubtedly had to serve by this consistent display of affection, and with all but certainty Alma divined it. She shrank from the woman; it cost her an unceasing effort not to betray dislike, or even hostility. 'Of course, you saw last week's _West End_?' pursued the hostess, smiling. 'You know whose doing that was?' 'I only guessed that it _might_ be Mr. Redgrave's kindness.' 'I have the same suspicion. He was here the other day--we talked about you. You haven't seen him since then?' 'No.' 'He hinted to me--just a little anxiety. I hardly know whether I ought to speak of it.' Alma looked an interrogation as unconcerned as she could make it, but did not open her lips. 'It was with reference to--your man of business. It seems he has heard something--I really don't know what--not quite favourable to Mr. Dymes. I shall not offend you, dear?' 'I don't take offence, Mrs. Strangeways,' Alma answered, with a slight laugh to cover her uneasiness. 'It's so old-fashioned.' The hostess uttered a thin trill of merriment. 'One is always safe with people who have humour, dear. It _does_ make life easier, doesn't it? Oh, the terrible persons who take everything with tragic airs! Well, there's not a bit of harm in it. Between ourselves, it struck me that our friend was just a little inclined to be--yes, you understand.' 'I'm afraid I don't.' 'I hate the word--well, just a trifle jealous.' Alma leaned back in her chair, glanced about her, and said nothing. 'Of course, he would never allow _you_ to suspect anything of the kind. It will make no difference. You can count upon his utmost efforts. But when one thinks how very much he has it in his power to do----. That bit of writing in the _West End_, you know--only the highest influence can command that kind of thing. The _West End_ can't be bought, I assure you. And one has to think of the future. A good beginning is much, but how many musicians are able to follow it up? My dear Alma, let me implore you not to imagine that you will be able to dispense with this kind of help.' 'Do you mean that Mr. Redgrave is likely to withdraw it?'