Miss Frothingham, the violin against her shoulder, was casting a final glance at the assembly, the glance which could convey a noble severity when it did not forthwith impose silence. A moment’s perfect stillness, and the quartet began. There were two ladies, two men. Miss Frothingham played the first violin, Mr Æneas Piper the second; the ’cello was in the hands of Herr Gassner, and the viola yielded its tones to Miss Dora Leach. Harvey knew them all, but had eyes only for one; in truth, only one rewarded observation. Miss Leach was a meagre blonde, whose form, face, and attitude enhanced by contrast the graces of the First Violin. Alma’s countenance shone – possibly with the joy of the artist, perhaps only with gratified vanity. As she grew warm, the rosy blood mantled in her cheeks and flushed her neck. Every muscle and nerve tense as the strings from which she struck music, she presently swayed forward on the points of her feet, and seemed to gain in stature, to become of more commanding type. Her features suggested neither force of intellect nor originality of character: but they had beauty, and something more. She stood a fascination, an allurement, to the masculine sense. Harvey Rolfe had never so responded to this quality in the girl; the smile died from his face as he regarded her. Of her skill as a musician, he could form no judgment; but it seemed to him that she played very well, and he had heard her praised by people who understood the matter; for instance, Herr Wilenski, the virtuoso, from whom – in itself a great compliment – Alma was having lessons.

He averted his eyes, and began to seek for known faces among the audience. His host he could not discover; Mr Frothingham must be away from home this evening; it was seldom he failed to attend Alma’s concerts. But near the front sat Mrs Ascott Larkfield, a dazzling figure, and, at some distance, her daughter Mrs Carnaby, no shadow of gloom upon her handsome features. Hugh was not in sight; probably he felt in no mood for parties. Next to Mrs Carnaby sat ‘that fellow’, Cyrus Redgrave, smiling as always, and surveying the people near him from under drooping brows, his head slightly bent. Mr Redgrave had thin hair, but a robust moustache and a short peaked beard; his complexion was a trifle sallow; he lolled upon the chair, so that, at moments, his head all but brushed Mrs Carnaby’s shoulder.

Long before the close of the piece, Rolfe had ceased to listen, his thoughts drifting hither and thither on a turbid flood of emotion. During the last passage – allegro molto leggieramente – he felt a movement round about him as of general relief, and when, on the last note, there broke forth (familiar ambiguity) sounds of pleasure and of applause, he at once stood up. But he had no intention of pressing into the throng that rapidly surrounded the musicians. Seeing that Mr Redgrave had vacated his place, whilst Mrs Carnaby remained seated, he stepped forward to speak with his friend’s wife. She smiled up at him, and lifted a gloved finger.

‘No! Please don’t!’

‘Not sit down by you?’

‘Oh, certainly. But I saw condolence in your face, and I’m tired of it. Besides, it would be mere hypocrisy in you.’

Harvey gave a silent laugh. He had tried to understand Sibyl Carnaby, and at different times had come to very different conclusions regarding her. All women puzzled, and often disconcerted, him; with Sibyl he could never talk freely, knowing not whether to dislike or to admire her. He was not made on the pattern of Cyrus Redgrave, who probably viewed woman-kind with instinctive contempt, yet pleased all with the flattery of his homage.

‘Well, then, we won’t talk of it,’ he said, noticing, in the same moment, that her person did not lack the adornment of jewels. Perhaps she had happened to be wearing these things on the evening of the robbery; but Rolfe felt a conviction that, under any circumstances, Sibyl would not be without rings and bracelets.

‘They certainly improve,’ she remarked, indicating the quartet with the tip of her fan.

Her opinions were uttered with calm assurance, whatever the subject. An infinite self-esteem, so placid that it never suggested the vulgarity of conceit, shone in her large eyes and dwelt upon the beautiful curve of her lips. No face could be of purer outline, of less sensual suggestiveness; it wore at times an air of cold abstraction which was all but austerity.