The hostess uttered a thin trill of merriment.
'One is always safe with people who have humour, dear. It does make life easier, doesn't it? Oh, the terrible persons who take everything with tragic airs! Well, there's not a bit of harm in it. Between ourselves, it struck me that our friend was just a little inclined to be—yes, you understand.'
'I'm afraid I don't.'
'I hate the word—well, just a trifle jealous.'
Alma leaned back in her chair, glanced about her, and said nothing.
'Of course, he would never allow you to suspect anything of the kind. It will make no difference. You can count upon his utmost efforts. But when one thinks how very much he has it in his power to do——. That bit of writing in the West End, you know—only the highest influence can command that kind of thing. The West End can't be bought, I assure you. And one has to think of the future. A good beginning is much, but how many musicians are able to follow it up? My dear Alma, let me implore you not to imagine that you will be able to dispense with this kind of help.'
'Do you mean that Mr. Redgrave is likely to withdraw it?'
'Impossible for me to say, dear. I am only telling you how his conversation struck me. He appeared to think—to be apprehensive that you might in future look to Mr. Dymes rather than to him. Of course, I could say nothing—I would not venture a syllable.'
'Of course not,' Alma murmured mechanically, her eyes wandering.
'Are you likely, I wonder, to see him in the next few days?'