Honora, when she went to town for the day, generally could be sure of finding some one, at least, of the Holt family at home at luncheon time.  They lived still in the same house on Madison Avenue to which Aunt Mary and Uncle Tom had been invited to breakfast on the day of Honora’s arrival in her own country.  It had a wide, brownstone front, with a basement, and a high flight of steps leading up to the door.  Within, solemnity reigned, and this effect was largely produced by the prodigiously high ceilings and the black walnut doors and woodwork.  On the second floor, the library where the family assembled was more cheerful.  The books themselves, although in black-walnut cases, and the sun pouring in, assisted in making this effect.

Here, indeed, were stability and peace.  Here Honora remade the acquaintance of the young settlement worker, and of the missionary, now on the Presbyterian Board of Missions.  Here she charmed other friends and allies of the Holt family; and once met, somewhat to her surprise, two young married women who differed radically from the other guests of the house.  Honora admired their gowns if not their manners; for they ignored her, and talked to Mrs. Holt about plans for raising money for the Working Girl’s Relief Society.

“You should join us, my dear,” said Mrs. Holt; “I am sure you would be interested in our work.”

“I’d be so glad to, Mrs. Holt,” replied Honora, “if only I didn’t live in the country.”

She came away as usual, feeling of having run into a cul de sac.  Mrs. Holt’s house was a refuge, not an outlet; and thither Honora directed her steps when a distaste for lunching alone or with some of her Rivington friends in the hateful, selfish gayety of a fashionable restaurant overcame her; or when her moods had run through a cycle, and an atmosphere of religion and domesticity became congenial.

“Howard,” she asked unexpectedly one evening, as he sat smoking beside the blue tiled mantel, “have you got on your winter flannels?”

“I’ll bet a hundred dollars to ten cents,” he cried, “that you’ve been lunching with Mrs. Holt.”

“I think you’re horrid,” said Honora.

Something must be said for her.  Domestic virtue, in the face of such mocking heresy, is exceptionally difficult of attainment.

Mrs. Holt had not been satisfied with Honora’s and Susan’s accounts of the house in Stafford Park.  She felt called upon to inspect it.  And for this purpose, in the spring following Honora’s marriage, she made a pilgrimage to Rivington and spent the day.  Honora met her at the station, and the drive homeward was occupied in answering innumerable questions on the characters, conditions, and modes of life of Honora’s neighbours.