Or was it all an illusion of the senses? Suppose her a mere graven image, hollow, void. Call her merely a handsome woman, with the face of some remarkable ancestress, with just enough of warmth to be subdued by the vigorous passion of such a fine fellow as Carnaby. On the whole, Rolfe preferred this hypothesis. He had never heard her say anything really bright, or witty, or significant. But Hugh spoke of her fine qualities of head and heart; Alma Frothingham made her an exemplar, and would not one woman see through the vacuous pretentiousness of another? Involuntarily, he was gazing at her, trying to read her face. 'So you think we ought to go to Australia,' said Sibyl quietly, returning his look. Hugh had repeated the conversation of last night; indiscreet, but natural. One could not suppose that Hugh kept many secrets from his wife. 'I?' He was confused. 'Oh, we were talking about the miseries of housekeeping----' 'I hate the name of those new countries.' It was said smilingly, but with what expression in the word 'hate'! 'Vigorous cuttings from the old tree,' said Rolfe. 'There is England's future.' 'Perhaps so. At present they are barbarous, and I have a decided preference for civilisation. So have you, I am quite sure.' Rolfe murmured his assent; whereupon Sibyl rose, just bent her head to him, and moved with graceful indolence away. 'Now she hates _me_,' Harvey said in his mind; 'and much I care!' As a matter of courtesy, he thought it well to move in Miss Frothingham's direction. The crowd was thinning; without difficulty he approached to within a few yards of her, and there exchanged a word or two with the player of the viola, Miss Leach--a good, ingenuous creature, he had always thought; dangerous to no man's peace, but rather sentimental, and on that account to be avoided. Whilst talking, he heard a man's voice behind him, pretentious, coarse, laying down the law in a musical discussion. 'No, no; Beethoven is not _Klaviermaszig_. His thoughts ate symphonic--they need the orchestra.... A string quartet is to a symphony what a delicate water-colour is to an oil-painting.... Oh, I don't care for his playing at all! he has not--what shall I call it?--_Sehnsucht_.' Rolfe turned at length to look. A glance showed him a tall, bony young man, with a great deal of disorderly hair, and shaven face; harsh-featured, sensual, utterly lacking refinement. He inquired of Miss Leach who this might be, and learnt that the man's name was Felix Dymes. 'Isn't he a humbug?' The young lady was pained and shocked. 'Oh, he is very clever,' she whispered. 'He has composed a most beautiful song--don't you know it?--"Margot". It's very likely that Topham may sing it at one of the Ballad Concerts.' 'Now I've offended _her_,' said Rolfe to himself. 'No matter.'