English newspapers were now reporting the trial of the directors of the Britannia Company, for to this pass had things come.  The revelations of the law-court satisfied public curiosity, and excited indignant clamour.  Alma read, and tried to view the proceedings as one for whom they had no personal concern; but her sky darkened, her heart grew heavy.  The name of Bennet Frothingham stood for criminal recklessness, for huge rascality; it would be so for years to come.  She had no courage to take up her violin; the sound of music grew hateful to her, as if mocking at her ruined ambition.

Three months had passed since she received her one and only letter from Honolulu; two months since she had written to Sibyl.  On a blue day of spring, when despondency lowered upon her, and all occupation, all amusements seemed a burden, she was driven to address her friend on the other side of the world, to send a cry of pain and hopelessness to the dream-island of the Pacific.

’What is the use of working at music?  The simple truth is, that since I left England I have given it up.  I am living here on false pretences; I shall never care to play the violin again.  What sort of a reception could I expect from an English audience?  If I took another name, of course it would get known who I was, and people would just come to stare at me —­ pleasant thought!  And I have utterly lost confidence in myself.  The difficulties are great, even where there is great talent, and I feel I have nothing of the kind.  I might toil for years, and should do no good.  I feel I am not an artist —­ I am beaten and disgraced.  There’s nothing left but to cry and be miserable, like any other girl who has lost her money, her hopes, everything.  Why don’t you write to me?  If you wait till you get this, it will be six or seven weeks before I could possibly hear.  And a letter from you would do me so much good.’

Some one knocked at her door.  She called ‘Herein!’ and there appeared a little boy, the child of her landlady, who sometimes ran errands for her.  He said that a gentleman was asking to see her.

‘Ein Deutscher?’

’Nein.  Ein Englander, glaub’ich, und ein schnurriges Deutsch ist’s, das er verbricht!’

Alma started up, shut her unfinished letter in the blotting-case, and looked anxiously about the room.

‘What is his name?  Ask him to give you his name.’

The youngster came back with a card, and Alma was astonished to read the name of ‘Mr. Felix Dymes’.  Why, she had all but forgotten the man’s existence.  How came he here?  What right had he to call?  And yet she was glad —­ nay, delighted.  Happily, she had the sitting-room (shared with her art-studying friend) to herself this morning.

‘Bring him up here,’ she said to the boy hurriedly, ’and ask him to wait a minute for me.’