Alma nodded.

’You’ve heard us speak of his bungalow at Wimbledon.  Just now he is in Paris, and he happens to want a portrait, a photograph, out of an album in the bungalow.  Naturally he would have asked his sister to look for it and send it, but Mrs. Fenimore is also away from home; so he has written to me, and begged me to do him the kindness.  I know exactly where the photo is to be looked for, and all I have to do is to drive over to Wimbledon, and a servant will be waiting to admit me.  Now, you will think it childish, but I really don’t like to go alone.  Though Mr Redgrave and I are such great friends, of course I have only been to the bungalow when he had people there —­ and —­ of course it’s very foolish at my age —­ but I’m sure you understand me ——­’

‘You mean you would like me to go with you?’ said Alma, with uncertain voice.

’Dare I ask it, dear Mrs. Rolfe?  There will be no one but the servant, who is told to expect a friend of her master’s.  I am very foolish, but one cannot be too careful, you know, and with you I shall feel everything so simple and natural and straightforward.  I’m sure you understand me.’

‘Certainly,’ faltered Alma.  ‘Yes —­ I will go ——­’

’Oh, how sweet of you, dear!  Need I say that I should never breathe a word to Mr. Redgrave?  He will think I went alone —­ as of course I very well might ——­’

‘But —­ if the servant should mention to him ——?’

’My dear, keep your fall down.  And then it is perfectly certain he will never ask a question.  He thinks it such a trivial matter ——­’

Alma did not entertain the least doubt of her friend’s veracity, and the desire to have a companion on such an expedition seemed to her natural enough; yet she felt so uneasy at the thought of what she had consented to do, that even whilst descending the stairs she all but stopped and begged to be excused.  The thought of stealing into Redgrave’s bachelor home, even with Mrs. Strangeways, startled and offended her self-respect; it seemed an immodesty.  She had never been invited to the bungalow; though Mrs. Carnaby had received and accepted such an invitation for an afternoon in the summer, when Mrs. Strangeways did the honours.  Redgrave was now scrupulously respectful; he would not presume so far on their revived acquaintance as to ask her to Wimbledon.  For this very reason —­ and for others —­ she had a curiosity about the bungalow.  Its exotic name affected her imagination; as did the knowledge that Cyrus Redgrave, whom she knew so particularly well, had built it for his retreat, his privacy.  Curiosity and fear of offending Mrs. Strangeways overcame her serious reluctance.  On entering the carriage she blushed hotly.  It was the first time in her life that she had acted with deliberate disregard of grave moral compunction, and conscience revenged itself by lowering her in her own eyes.

Mrs. Strangeways talked all the way, but not once of Redgrave; her theme was the excellence of Alma’s playing, which, she declared, had moved everyone with wonder and delight.