alloy. His mother had got between them now.

The solo on the piano came to an end.

In the interval that followed, he turned once more towards the
entrance. Just as he was looking away again, he heard Mrs. Gallilee's
loud voice. She was administering a maternal caution to one of the
children. "Behave better here than you behaved in the carriage, or I
shall take you away."

If she found him in his present place--if she put her own clever
construction on what she saw--her opinion would assuredly express
itself in some way. She was one of those women who can insult another
woman (and safely disguise it) by an inquiring look. For the girl's
sake, Ovid instantly moved away from her to the seats at the back of
the hall.

Mrs. Gallilee made a striking entrance--dressed to perfection; powdered
and painted to perfection; leading her daughters, and followed by her
governess. The usher courteously indicated places near the platform.
Mrs. Galilee astonished him by a little lecture on acoustics, delivered
with the sweetest condescension. Her Christian humility smiled, and
call the usher, Sir. "Sound, sir, is most perfectly heard towards the
centre of the auditorium." She led the way towards the centre. Vacant
places invited her to the row of seats occupied by Carmina and Teresa.
She, the unknown aunt, seated herself next to the unknown niece.

They looked at each other.

Perhaps, it was the heat of the room. Perhaps, she had not perfectly