Mrs. Frothingham was not at home.  She might return very shortly.

‘Is —­ Miss Frothingham at home?’

The servant did not straightway admit him, but took his name.  On his entering the drawing-room, three figures appeared before him.  He saw Alma; he recognised Miss Leach; the third lady was named to him as Miss Leach’s sister.

‘You knew I was in London?’ Alma remarked rather than inquired.

‘I had no idea of it —­ until I heard your violin.’

‘My violin, but not my playing.  It was Miss Leach.’

From the first word —­ her ‘Ah, how d’you do’ as he entered —­ Alma’s tone and manner appeared to him forced, odd, unlike anything he remembered of her.  In correcting him, she gave a hard, short laugh, glancing at Dora Leach in a way verging upon the ill-bred.  Her look had nothing amiable, though she continuously smiled, and when she invited the visitor to be seated, it was with off-hand familiarity very unflattering to his ear.

’You came to see Mamma, of course.  I dare say she won’t be long.  She had to go through the rain on business with someone or other —­ perhaps you know.  Have you been in London all the summer?  Oh no, I remember you told me you had been somewhere in France; on the Loire, wasn’t it?’

Rolfe dropped a careless affirmative.  His temper prompted him to ask whether Miss Frothingham knew the difference between the Loire and the Garonne; but on the whole he was more puzzled than offended.  What had come over this young woman?  Outwardly she was not much altered —­ a little thinner in the face, perhaps; her eyes seeming a trifle darker and deeper set; but in the point of demeanour she had appreciably suffered.  Her bearing and mode of speech were of that kind which, in a man, would be called devil-may-care.  Was it a result of student-life?  If her stinted allowance had already produced effects such as this, Mrs Frothingham was justified in uneasiness.

He turned to Miss Leach, and with her talked exclusively for some minutes.  As soon as civility permitted, he would rise and make his escape.  Alma, the while, chatted with the younger sister, whom she addressed as ‘Gerda’.  Then the door opened, and Mrs. Frothingham came in, wearing her out-of-doors and gave him cordial welcome, though in few and nervous costume; she fixed her eyes on Rolfe with a peculiar intensity, words.

‘I am no longer alone, you see.’  She threw a swift side-glance at Alma.  ‘It is a great pleasure.’

‘Does it rain still, Mamma?’ asked Alma in a high voice.

‘Not just now, my dear; but it’s very disagreeable.’

‘Then I’ll walk with you to the station.’  She addressed the sisters.  ’Dora and Gerda can’t stay; they have an appointment at five o’clock.  They’ll come again in a day or two.’

After the leave-takings, and when Alma, with a remark that she would not be long, had closed the door behind her, Mrs. Frothingham seated herself and began to draw off her gloves.  The bonnet and cloak she was wearing, though handsome and in the mode, made her look older than at Rolfe’s last visit.  She was now a middle-aged woman, with emphasis on the qualifying term; in home dress she still asserted her sex, grace of figure and freshness of complexion prevailing over years and sorrows.  At this moment, moreover, weariness, and perhaps worry, appeared in her countenance.