Harvey had bought it at the gallery in Pall Mall not long ago; the work of a man of whom he knew nothing; it represented the farthest point of his own travels, and touched profoundly his vague historico-poetic sensibilities.
Three letters lay on the desk.

As soon as he had lit his lamp, and exchanged his boots for slippers, he looked at the envelopes, and chose one addressed in a woman's hand.

The writer was Mrs.Bennet Frothingham.
'We have only just heard, from Mrs.Carnaby, that you are back in town.
_Could_ you spare us tomorrow evening?
It would be so nice of you.

The quartet will give Beethoven's F minor, and Alma says it will be well done--the conceit of the child! We hope to have some interesting people What a shocking affair of poor Mrs.Carnaby's! I never knew anything _quite_ so bad .-- Our united kind regards.' Harvey thrust out his lips, in an ambiguous expression, as he threw the sheet aside.

He mused before opening the next letter.