Before his return tonight other letters had arrived for him, and all lay together, as usual, upon his desk. Alma, trying to wear her customary face, waited for him to mention that he had heard from Gunnersbury, but Harvey said nothing. He talked, instead, of a letter from Basil Morton, who wanted him to go to Greystone in the spring, with wife and child.
'You mustn't count on me,' said Alma.
'But after your concert—recital—whatever you call it; it would be a good rest.'
'Oh, I shall be busier than ever. Mr. Dymes hopes to arrange for me at several of the large towns.'
Harvey smiled, and Alma observed him with irritation she could scarcely repress. Of course, his smile meant a civil scepticism.
'By-the-bye,' he asked, 'is Dymes the comic opera man?'
'Yes. I rather wondered, Harvey, whether you would awake to that fact. He will be one of our greatest composers.'
She went on with enthusiasm, purposely exaggerating Dymes's merits, and professing a warm personal regard for him. In the end, Harvey's eye was upon her, still smiling, but curiously observant.
'Why hasn't he been here? Doesn't he think it odd that you never ask him?'
'Oh, you know that I don't care to ask people. They are aware'—she laughed—'that my husband is not musical.'