A few days ago he had happened to see Miss Leach, who gave him Miss Frothingham's address, and he could not deny himself the pleasure of calling.

Chatting thus, he made himself comfortable in a chair, and Alma sat over against him.

The man was loud, conceited, vulgar; but, after all, he composed very sweet music, which promised to take the public ear; and he brought with him a waft from the happiness of old days; and how could one expect small proprieties of a bohemian, an artist?
Alma began to talk eagerly, joyously.
'And what are you doing, Miss Frothingham ?' 'Oh, fiddling a little.

But I haven't been very well.' 'I can see that.

Yet in another sense you look a better than ever.' He began to hum an air, glancing round the room.
'You haven't a piano.