‘But can she afford it?’

‘I don’t know.’

’I’ve never understood yet why you take so much interest in those children.’

Her eyes rested upon him with a peculiarly keen scrutiny, and Harvey, resenting the embarrassment due to his own tactics, showed a slight impatience.

’Why, partly because I wish to help Mrs. Abbott with advice, if I can:  partly because I’m interested in the whole question of education.’

‘Yes, it’s interesting, of course.  She has holidays, I suppose?’

‘It’s holiday time with her now.’

‘Then why don’t you ask her to come and see us?’

‘I would at once,’ Harvey replied, with hesitation, ’if I felt sure that ——­’ He broke off, and altered the turn of his sentence.  ’I don’t know whether she can leave those children.’

’You were going to make a different objection.  Of course there’s a little awkwardness.  But you said long ago that all that sort of thing would wear away, and surely it ought to have done by now.  If Mrs. Abbott is as sensible as you think, I don’t see how she can have any unpleasant feeling towards me.’

‘I can’t suppose that she has.’

’Then now is the opportunity.  Send an invitation. —­ Why shouldn’t I write it myself?’

Alma had quite shaken off the appearance of lassitude; she drew herself up, looked towards the writing-table, and showed characteristic eagerness to carry out a project.  Though doubtful of the result, Harvey assented without any sign of reluctance, and forthwith she moved to the desk.  In a few minutes she had penned a letter, which was held out for her husband’s perusal.

‘Admirable!’ he exclaimed.  ’Couldn’t be better. Nihil quod tetigit non ornavit.’

‘And pray what does that mean?’ asked Alma, her countenance a trifle perturbed by the emotions which blended with her delight in praise.

’That my wife is the most graceful of women, and imparts to all she touches something of her own charm.’

‘All that?’

‘Latin, you must know, is the language of compression.’

They parted with a laugh.  As she left the study, Alma saw her little son just going out; the nurse had placed him in his mail-cart, where he sat smiling and cooing.  Mrs. Frothingham, who delighted in the child, had made ready for a walk in the same direction, and from the doorway called to Alma to accompany them.

‘I may come after you, perhaps,’ was the reply.  ‘Ta-ta, Hughie!’

With a wave of her hand, Alma passed into the sitting-room, where she stood at the window, watching till Mrs. Frothingham’s sunshade had disappeared.  Then she moved about, like one in search of occupation; taking up a book only to throw it down again, gazing vacantly at a picture, or giving a touch to a bowl of flowers.  Here, as in the dining-room, only the absence of conventional superfluities called for remark; each article of furniture was in simple taste; the result, an impression of plain elegance.  On a little corner table lay Alma’s colour-box, together with a drawing-board, a sketching-block, and the portfolio which contained chosen examples of her work.  Not far away, locked in its case, lay her violin, the instrument she had been wont to touch caressingly; today her eyes shunned it.