Honora was sure as she could be that Chiltern was angry, although he gave
no visible sign of this. It was as though the current ran from his arm
into hers.

"Have you been away?" she asked.

"It seems to me as though I had never been anywhere else," he answered,
and he glanced curiously at the guests ranging about the great,
flower-laden table. They sat down.

She was a little repelled, a little piqued; and a little relieved when
the man on her other side spoke to her, and she recognized Mr. Reginald
Farwell, the architect. The table capriciously swung that way. She did
not feel prepared to talk to Mr. Chiltern. And before entering upon her
explorations she was in need of a guide. She could have found none more
charming, none more impersonal, none more subtly aware of her wants
(which had once been his) than Mr. Farwell. With his hair parted with
geometrical precision from the back of his collar to his forehead, with
his silky mustache and eyes of soft hazel lights, he was all things to
all men and women--within reason. He was an achievement that civilization
had not hitherto produced, a combination of the Beaux Arts and the Jockey
Club and American adaptability. He was of those upon whom labour leaves
no trace.

There were preliminaries, mutually satisfactory. To see Mrs. Spence was
never to forget her, but more delicately intimated. He remembered to have
caught a glimpse of her at the Quicksands Club, and Mrs. Dallam nor her
house were not mentioned by either. Honora could not have been in New
York Long. No, it was her first winter, and she felt like a stranger.