somewhat elaborate, "will be delighted." And he shot at Honora a glance
compounded of many feelings, which she returned smilingly.

"Is that the waiter?" asked Mrs. Holt.

"That is a waiter," said Trixton Brent, glancing at the motionless
figure. "Shall I call him?"

"If you please," said Mrs. Holt. "Honora, you must tell me what you
like."

"Anything, Mrs. Holt," said Honora.

"If we are to leave a little after nine," said that lady, balancing her
glasses on her nose and glancing at the card, "we have not, I'm afraid,
time for many courses."

The head waiter greeted them at the door of the dining-room. He, too, was
a man of wisdom and experience. He knew Mrs. Holt, and he knew Trixton
Brent. If gravity had not been a life-long habit with him, one might have
suspected him of a desire to laugh. As it was, he seemed palpably
embarrassed,--for Mr. Brent had evidently been conversing with him.

"Two, sir?" he asked.

"Three," said Mrs. Holt, with dignity.

The head waiter planted them conspicuously in the centre of the room; one
of the strangest parties, from the point of view of a connoisseur of New
York, that ever sat down together. Mrs. Holt with her curls, and her