“Howard, ring the bell.”

She led the way up the stairs to the guest-chamber with the rose paper and the little balcony.  As she closed the door gusts of laughter reached them from the floor below, and she could plainly distinguish the voices of May Barclay and Trixton Brent.

“I hope you’ll be comfortable, Mrs. Holt,” she said.  “Your maid will be in the little room across the hall and I believe you like breakfast at eight.”

“You mustn’t let me keep you from your guests, Honora.”

“Oh, Mrs. Holt,” she said, on the verge of tears, “I don’t want to go to them.  Really, I don’t.”

“It must be confessed,” said Mrs. Holt, opening her handbag and taking out the copy of the mission report, which had been carefully folded, “that they seem to be able to get along very well without you.  I suppose I am too old to understand this modern way of living.  How well I remember one night—­it was in 1886—­I missed the train to Silverdale, and my telegram miscarried.  Poor Mr. Holt was nearly out of his head.”

She fumbled for her glasses and dropped them.  Honora picked them up, and it was then she perceived that the tears were raining down the good lady’s cheeks.  At the same moment they sprang into Honora’s eyes, and blinded her.  Mrs. Holt looked at her long and earnestly.

“Go down, my dear,” she said gently, “you must not neglect your friends.  They will wonder where you are.  And at what time do you breakfast?”

“At—­at any time you like.”

“I shall be down at eight,” said Mrs. Holt, and she kissed her.

Honora, closing the door, stood motionless in the hall, and presently the footsteps and the laughter and the sound of carriage wheels on the gravel died away.

CHAPTER XI

CONTAINING SOME REVELATIONS

Honora, as she descended, caught a glimpse of the parlour maid picking up the scattered cards on the drawing-room floor.  There were voices on the porch, where Howard was saying good-by to Mrs. Chandos and Trixton Brent.  She joined them.

“Oh, my dear!” cried Mrs. Chandos, interrupting Honora’s apologies, “I’m sure I shan’t sleep a wink—­she gave me such a fright.  You might have sent Trixy ahead to prepare us.  When I first caught sight of her, I thought it was my own dear mother who had come all the way from Cleveland, and the cigarette burned my fingers.  But I must say I think it was awfully clever of you to get hold of her and save Trixy’s reputation.  Good night, dear.”

And she got into her carriage.

“Give my love to Mrs. Holt,” said Brent, as he took Honora’s hand, “and tell her I feel hurt that she neglected to say good night to me.  I thought I had made an impression.  Tell her I’ll send her a cheque for her rescue work.  She inspires me with confidence.”

Howard laughed.