glasses laid flat on the bosom of her dove-coloured dress; Honora in a
costume dedicated to the very latest of the sports, and Trixton Brent in
English tweeds. The dining-room was full. But here and there amongst the
diners, Honora observed, were elderly people who smiled discreetly as
they glanced in their direction--friends, perhaps, of Mrs. Holt. And
suddenly, in one corner, she perceived a table of six where the mirth was
less restrained.

Fortunately for Mr. Brent, he had had a cocktail, or perhaps two, in
Honora's absence. Sufficient time had elapsed since their administration
for their proper soothing and exhilarating effects. At the sound of the
laughter in the corner he turned his head, a signal for renewed merriment
from that quarter. Whereupon he turned back again and faced his hostess
once more with a heroism that compelled Honora's admiration. As a
sportsman, he had no intention of shirking the bitterness of defeat.

"Mrs. Grainger and Mrs. Shorter," he remarked, "appear to be enjoying
themselves."

Honora felt her face grow hot as the merriment at the corner table rose
to a height it had not heretofore attained. And she did not dare to look
again.

Mrs. Holt was blissfully oblivious to her surroundings. She was, as
usual, extremely composed, and improved the interval, while drinking her
soup, with a more or less undisguised observation of Mr. Brent; evidently
regarding him somewhat in the manner that a suspicious householder would
look upon a strange gentleman whom he accidentally found in his front
hall. Explanations were necessary. That Mr. Brent's appearance, on the
whole, was in his favour did not serve to mitigate her suspicions.