'A very good hall. They say such an audience at a first recital has hardly ever been known.'
'You weren't nervous?'
'I've often been far more when I played in a drawing-room; and I never played so well—not half so well!'
She entered upon a vivid description of her feelings. On first stepping forward, she could see nothing but a misty expanse of faces; she could not feel the boards she trod upon; yet no sooner had she raised her violin than a glorious sense of power made her forget everything but the music she was to play. She all but laughed with delight. Never had she felt so perfect a mastery of her instrument. She played without effort, and could have played for hours without weariness. Her fellow-musicians declared that she was 'wonderful'; and Harvey, as he listened to this flow of excited talk, asked himself whether he had not, after all, judged Alma amiss. Perhaps he had been the mere dull Philistine, unable to recognise the born artist, and doing his paltry best to obstruct her path. Perhaps so; but he would look for the opinion of serious critics—if any such had been present.
At Baker Street they had to wait for a train, and here it happened that Alma saw the evening placards. At once she changed; her countenance was darkened with anxiety.
'Hadn't you better get a paper?' she asked in a quick undertone.
'I have one. Do you wish to see it now?'
'Is there anything more?'
'Yes, there is. You don't know, I suppose, whether Carnaby and his wife were at the Hall?'
'I could hardly distinguish faces,' she replied, with tremor. 'What is it? Tell me.'