'What should you say if I proposed to come out—to be a professional?'
Harvey's eyes turned slowly upon her; he read her face with curiosity, and did not smile.
'Do you mean you have thought of it?'
'To tell you the truth, it is so often put into my head by other people. I am constantly being asked why I'm content to remain an amateur.'
'By professional musicians?'
'All sorts of people.'
'It reminds me of something. You know I don't interfere; I don't pretend to have you in surveillance, and don't wish to begin it. But are you quite sure that you are making friends in the best class that is open to you?'
Alma's smile died away. For a moment she recovered the face of years gone by; a look which put Harvey in mind of Mrs. Frothingham's little drawing-room at Swiss Cottage, where more than once Alma had gazed at him with a lofty coldness which concealed resentment. That expression could still make him shrink a little and feel uncomfortable. But it quickly faded, giving place to a look of perfectly amiable protest.
'My dear Harvey, what has caused you to doubt it?'
'I merely asked the question. Perhaps it occurred to me that you were not exactly in your place among people who talk to you in that way.'