Some instinct informed Honora that the woman was Mrs. Grainger, and immediately the scene in the Holland House dining-room came back to her.  Never until now had she felt the full horror of its comedy.  And then, as though to fill the cup of humiliation, came the thought of Cecil Grainger’s call.  She longed, in an agony with which sensitive natures will sympathize, for the reading to be over.

The last paragraph of the report contained tributes to Mrs. Joshua Holt and Mrs. Cecil Grainger for the work each had done during the year, and amidst enthusiastic hand-clapping the formal part of the meeting came to an end.  The servants were entering with tea as Honora made her way towards the door, where she was stopped by Susan Holt.

“My dear Honora,” cried Mrs. Holt, who had hurried after her daughter, “you’re not going?”

Honora suddenly found herself without an excuse.

“I really ought to, Mrs. Holt.  I’ve had such a good time-and I’ve been so interested.  I never realized that such things occurred.  And I’ve got one of the reports, which I intend to read over again.”

“But my dear,” protested Mrs. Holt, “you must meet some of the members of the Society.  Bessie!”

Mrs. Grainger, indeed—­for Honora had been right in her surmise—­was standing within ear-shot of this conversation.  And Honora, who knew she was there, could not help feeling that she took a rather redoubtable interest in it.  At Mrs. Holt’s words she turned.

“Bessie, I’ve found a new recruit—­one that I can answer for, Mrs. Spence, whom I spoke to you about.”

Mrs. Grainger bestowed upon Honora her enigmatic smile.

“Oh,” she declared, “I’ve heard of Mrs. Spence from other sources, and I’ve seen her, too.”

Honora grew a fiery red.  There was obviously no answer to such a remark, which seemed the quintessence of rudeness.  But Mrs. Grainger continued to smile, and to stare at her with the air of trying to solve a riddle.

“I’m coming to see you, if I may,” she said.  “I’ve been intending to since I’ve been in town, but I’m always so busy that I don’t get time to do the things I want to do.”

An announcement that fairly took away Honora’s breath.  She managed to express her appreciation of Mrs. Grainger’s intention, and presently found herself walking rapidly up-town through swirling snow, somewhat dazed by the events of the afternoon.  And these, by the way, were not yet finished.  As she reached her own door, a voice vaguely familiar called her name.

“Honora!”

She turned.  The slim, tall figure of a young woman descended from a carriage and crossed the pavement, and in the soft light of the vestibule she recognized Ethel Wing.

“I’m so glad I caught you,” said that young lady when they entered the drawing-room.  And she gazed at her school friend.  The colour glowed in Honora’s cheeks, but health alone could not account for the sparkle in her eyes.  “Why, you look radiant.  You are more beautiful than you were at Sutcliffe.  Is it marriage?”