The redemption of his debentures kept him still occupied with a furtive study of the money-market.  He did not dare to face risk on a large scale; the mere thought of a great reduction of income made him tremble and perspire.  So in the end he adopted the simple and straightforward expedient of seeking an interview with his banker, by whom he was genially counselled to purchase such-and-such stock, a sound security, but less productive than that he had previously held.  An unfortunate necessity, seeing that his expenses increased and were likely to do so.  But he tried to hope that Westminster Bridge Road would eventually reimburse him.  With good luck, it might do more.

His days of quietude were over.  He, too, was being drawn into the whirlpool.  No more dreaming among his books; no more waking to the ordinary duties and cares of a reasonable life.  As a natural consequence of the feeling of unsettlement, of instability, he had recourse more often than he wished to the old convivial habits, gathering about him once again, at club or restaurant, the kind of society in which he always felt at ease —­ good, careless, jovial, and often impecunious fellows, who, as in days gone by, sometimes made a demand upon his purse which he could not resist, though he had now such cause for rigid economy.  Was it that he grew old? —­ he could no longer take his wine with disregard of consequence.  The slightest excess, and too surely he paid for it on the morrow, not merely with a passing headache, but with a whole day’s miserable discomfort.  Oh, degeneracy of stomach and of brain!  Of will, too; for he was sure to repeat the foolish experience before a week had passed.

It was not till Mrs. Frothingham had left them after a fortnight’s visit that he reminded Alma of her promise to go with him to Gunnersbury.

‘Did I promise?’ she said.  ’I thought we agreed that you should settle all that yourself.’

‘I had rather you came with me to see Mrs. Abbott.  Shall it be Saturday?’

‘Can’t,’ replied Alma, with a shake of the head and a smile.  ’I have to see Mr. Dymes.’

‘Dymes?  Who is he?’

‘My agent.’

‘Oh! very well; then I’ll go alone.’

He would not permit himself any further inquiry.  Alma had never spoken to him of Dymes, her ‘agent’.  Harvey pictured an ill-shaven man in a small office, and turned from the thought with disgust.  Too late to interpose, to ask questions; anything of that kind would but make him seem small, ridiculous, fussy.  He had chosen his course, and must pursue it.

Not that Alma behaved in such a way as to suggest estrangement; anything but so.  Her manner was always amiable, frequently affectionate.  When they spent an evening together —­ it did not often happen —­ she talked delightfully; avoiding, as did Harvey himself, the subjects on which they were not likely to agree.  Her gaze had all the old directness, her smile was sweet as ever, and her laugh as melodious.  If ever he felt uneasy during her long absences in town, one of these evenings sufficed to reassure him.  Alma was Alma still, and could he but have reconciled himself to the thought of her playing in public, she would have been yet the wife he chose, frankly self-willed, gallantly independent.