and we're all to stay here for dinner and dance afterwards. And Trixy
Brent promised me faithfully he'd' come here for tea, as soon as he
dressed."

"I really can't stay, Lily. I--I don't feel up to it," said Honora,
desperately.

"And you can't know how I counted on you! You look perfectly fresh, my
dear."

Honora felt an overwhelming desire to hide herself, to be alone. In spite
of the cries of protest that followed her and drew--she thought--an
unnecessary and disagreeable attention to her departure, she threaded her
way among groups of people who stared after her. Her colour was high, her
heart beating painfully; a vague sense of rebellion and shame within her
for which she did not try to account. Rather than run the gantlet of the
crowded veranda she stepped out on the lawn, and there encountered
Trixton Brent. He had, in an incredibly brief time, changed from his polo
clothes to flannels and a straw hat. He looked at her and whistled, and
barred her passage.

"Hello!" he cried. "Hoity-toity! Where are we going in such a hurry?"

"Home," answered Honora, a little breathlessly, and added for his
deception, "the game's over, isn't it? I'm glad you won."

Mr. Brent, however, continued to gaze at her penetratingly, and she
avoided his eyes.

"But why are you rushing off like a flushed partridge?--no reference to