and there stood waiting.  A carriage drove past, with a sound of English voices, which drew her attention.  She saw three children, a lady, and a gentleman.  The last-mentioned looked at her, and she recognised Cyrus Redgrave.  Whether he knew her face seemed uncertain.  Hoping to escape unobserved, she turned quickly, and walked a few yards.  Before she faced round again, a quick footstep approached her, and the next moment Mr Redgrave stood, hat in hand, courteously claiming her acquaintance.

‘I thought I could not possibly be mistaken!’

The carriage, having stopped for him to alight, was driving away.

‘That is my sister and her children,’ said Redgrave, when he had warmly shaken hands and expressed his pleasure at the meeting.  ’You never met her.  Her husband is in India, and you see me in full domesticity.  This morning I posted a note to you; of course, you haven’t received it yet.’

Alma did her best to behave with dignity.  In any case it would have been trying to encounter such a man as Redgrave —­ wealthy, elegant, a figure in society, who must necessarily regard her as banished from polite circles; and in her careless costume she felt more than abashed.  For the first time a sense of degradation, of social inferiority, threatened to overwhelm her self-respect.

‘How did you know my address?’ she asked, with an involuntary imitation of hauteur, made pathetic by the flush on her face and the lingering half-smile.

’Mrs. Frothingham kindly gave it me. —­ You were walking this way, I think? —­ My sister is living at Stuttgart, and I happened to come over just in time to act as her courier on a journey to Salzburg.  We got here yesterday, and go on tomorrow, or the day after.  I dropped you a note, asking if I might call.’

‘Where have you seen Mamma lately?’ asked Alma, barely attentive to the explanations he was giving her.

’In London, quite by chance.  In fact, it was at Waterloo Station.  Mrs Frothingham was starting for the country, and I happened to be going to Wimbledon.  I told her I might possibly see you on my way through Munich.’

Alma began to recover herself.  That Cyrus Redgrave should still take an interest in her was decidedly more gratifying than the eccentric compliment of Felix Dymes.  She strove to forget the humiliation of having been found standing in a public place, waiting for a tram-car.  In Redgrave’s manner no change was perceptible, unless, indeed, he spoke with more cordiality, which must be prompted by kind feeling.  Their acquaintance covered only a year or two, and had scarcely amounted to what passes for friendship, but Redgrave seemed oblivious of late unpleasant events.

‘I’m glad you didn’t call unexpectedly,’ she said, trying to strike a light note.  ’I’m a student now —­ no longer an amateur —­ and live as a student must.’