LITMIR.BIZ

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description of him in his own language leaped into Honora's mind, so much did he appear to have walked out of one of the many yellow-backed novels she had read. He was not tall, but beautifully made, and his coat was quite absurdly cut in at the waist; his mustache was en-croc, and its points resembled those of the Spanish bayonets in the conservatory: he might have been three and thirty, and he was what the novels described as 'un peu fane' which means that he had seen the world: his eyes were extraordinarily bright, black, and impenetrable.

      A greater contrast to the Vicomte than Mr. Howard Spence would have been difficult to find. He was Honora's first glimpse of Finance, of the powers that travelled in private cars and despatched ships across the ocean. And in our modern mythology, he might have stood for the god of Prosperity. Prosperity is pink, and so was Mr. Spence, in two places—his smooth-shaven cheeks and his shirt. His flesh had a certain firmness, but he was not stout; he was merely well fed, as Prosperity should be. His features were comparatively regular, his mustache a light brown, his eyes hazel. The fact that he came from that mysterious metropolis, the heart of which is Wall Street, not only excused but legitimized the pink shirt and the neatly knotted green tie, the pepper-and-salt check suit that was loose and at the same time well-fitting, and the jewelled ring on his plump little finger. On the whole, Mr. Spence was not only prepossessing, but he contrived to give Honora, as she shook his hand, the impression of being brought a step nearer to the national source of power. Unlike the Vicomte, he did not appear to have been instantly and mortally wounded upon her arrival on the scene, but his greeting was flattering, and he remained by her side instead of returning to that of Mrs. Robert.

      “When did you come up?” he asked.

      “Only yesterday,” answered Honora.

      “New York,” said Mr. Spence, producing a gold cigarette case on which his monogram was largely and somewhat elaborately engraved, “New York is played out this time of year—isn't it? I dropped in at Sherry's last night for dinner, and there weren't thirty people there.”

      Honora had heard of Sherry's as a restaurant where one dined fabulously, and she tried to imagine the cosmopolitan and blissful existence which permitted “dropping in at” such a place. Moreover, Mr. Spence was plainly under the impression that she too “came up” from New York, and it was impossible not to be a little pleased.

      “It must be a relief to get into the country,” she ventured.

      Mr. Spence glanced around him expressively, and then looked at her with a slight smile. The action and the smile—to which she could not refrain from responding—seemed to establish a tacit understanding between them. It was natural that he should look upon Silverdale as a slow place, and there was something delicious in his taking, for granted that she shared this opinion. She wondered a little wickedly what he would say when he knew the truth about her, and this was the birth of a resolution that his interest should not flag.

      “Oh, I can stand the country when it is properly inhabited,” he said, and their eyes met in laughter.

      “How many inhabitants do you require?” she asked.

      “Well,” he said brazenly, “the right kind of inhabitant is worth a thousand of the wrong kind. It is a good rule in business, when you come across a gilt-edged security, to make a specialty of it.”

      Honora found the compliment somewhat singular. But she was prepared to forgive New York a few sins in the matter of commercial slang: New York, which evidently dressed as it liked, and talked as it liked. But not knowing any more of a gilt-edged security than that it was something to Mr. Spence's taste, a retort was out of the question. Then, as though she were doomed that day to complicity, her eyes chanced to encounter an appealing glance from the Vicomte, who was searching with the courage of despair for an English word, which his hostess awaited in stoical silence. He was trying to give his impressions of Silverdale, in comparison to country places abroad, while Mrs. Robert regarded him enigmatically, and Susan sympathetically. Honora had an almost irresistible desire to laugh.

      “Ah, Madame,” he cried, still looking at Honora, “will you have the kindness to permit me to walk about ever so little?”

      “Certainly, Vicomte, and I will go with you. Get my parasol, Susan. Perhaps you would like to come, too, Howard,” she added to Mr. Spence; “it has been so long since you were here, and we have made many changes.”

      “And you, Mademoiselle,” said the Vicomte to Honora, “you will come—yes? You are interested in landscape?”

      “I love the country,” said Honora.

      “It is a pleasure to have a guest who is so appreciative,” said Mrs. Holt. “Miss Leffingwell was up at seven this morning, and in the garden with my husband.”

      “At seven!” exclaimed the Vicomte; “you American young ladies are wonderful. For example—” and he was about to approach her to enlarge on this congenial theme when Susan arrived with the parasol, which Mrs. Holt put in his hands.

      “We'll begin, I think, with the view from the summer house,” she said. “And I will show you how our famous American landscape architect, Mr. Olmstead, has treated the slope.”

      There was something humorous, and a little pathetic in the contrasted figures of the Vicomte and their hostess crossing the lawn in front of them. Mr. Spence paused a moment to light his cigarette, and he seemed to derive infinite pleasure from this juxtaposition.

      “Got left—didn't he?” he said.

      To this observation there was, obviously, no answer.

      “I'm not very strong on foreigners,” he declared. “An American is good enough for me. And there's something about that fellow which would make me a little slow in trusting him with a woman I cared for.”

      “If you are beginning to worry over Mrs. Holt,” said Honora, “we'd better walk a little faster.”

      Mr. Spence's delight at this sally was so unrestrained as to cause the couple ahead to turn. The Vicomte's expression was reproachful.

      “Where's Susan?” asked Mrs. Holt.

      “I think she must have gone in the house,” Honora answered.

      “You two seem to be having a very good time.”

      “Oh, we're hitting it off fairly well,” said Mr. Spence, no doubt for the benefit of the Vicomte. And he added in a confidential tone, “Aren't we?”

      “Not on the subject of the Vicomte,” she replied promptly. “I like him. I like French people.”

      “What!” he exclaimed, halting in his steps, “you don't take that man seriously?”

      “I haven't known him long enough to take him seriously,” said Honora.

      “There's a blindness about women,” he declared, “that's incomprehensible. They'll invest in almost any old thing if the certificates are beautifully engraved. If you were a man, you wouldn't trust that Frenchman to give you change for five dollars.”

      “French people,” proclaimed Honora, “have a light touch of which we Americans are incapable. We do not know how to relax.”

      “A light touch!” cried Mr. Spence, delightedly, “that about describes the Vicomte.”

      “I'm sure you do him an injustice,” said Honora.

      “We'll see,” said Mr. Spence. “Mrs. Holt is always picking up queer people like that. She's noted for it.” He turned to her. “How did you happen to come here?”

      “I came with Susan,” she replied, amusedly, “from boarding-school at Sutcliffe.”

      “From boarding-school!”

      She rather enjoyed his surprise.

      “You don't mean to say you are Susan's age?”

      “How old did you think I was?” she asked.

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