“Oh,” said Honora, “I hope she will let me go through it.”

“I’m sure she will want to take you there to-morrow,” answered Susan, and she smiled.

The road wound upwards, by the valley of a brook, through the hills, now wooded, now spread with pastures that shone golden green in the evening light, the herds gathering at the gate-bars.  Presently they came to a gothic-looking stone building, with a mediaeval bridge thrown across the stream in front of it, and massive gates flung open.  As they passed, Honora had a glimpse of a blue driveway under the arch of the forest.  An elderly woman looked out at them through the open half of a leaded lattice.

“That’s the Chamberlin estate,” Susan volunteered.  “Mr. Chamberlin has built a castle on the top of that hill.”

Honora caught her breath.

“Are many of the places here like that?” she asked.  Susan laughed.

“Some people don’t think the place is very—­appropriate,” she contented herself with replying.

A little later, as they climbed higher, other houses could be discerned dotted about the country-side, nearly all of them varied expressions of the passion for a new architecture which seemed to possess the rich.  Most of them were in conspicuous positions, and surrounded by wide acres.  Each, to Honora, was an inspiration.

“I had no idea there were so many people here,” she said.

“I’m afraid Sutton is becoming fashionable,” answered Susan.

“And don’t you want it to?” asked Honora.

“It was very nice before,” said Susan, quietly.

Honora was silent.  They turned in between two simple stone pillars that divided a low wall, overhung from the inside by shrubbery growing under the forest.  Susan seized her friend’s hand and pressed it.

“I’m always so glad to get back here,” she whispered.  “I hope you’ll like it.”

Honora returned the pressure.

The grey road forked, and forked again.  Suddenly the forest came to an end in a sort of premeditated tangle of wild garden, and across a wide lawn the great house loomed against the western sky.  Its architecture was of the ’60’s and ’70’s, with a wide porte-cochere that sheltered the high entrance doors.  These were both flung open, a butler and two footmen were standing impassively beside them, and a neat maid within.  Honora climbed the steps as in a dream, followed Susan through a hall with a black-walnut, fretted staircase, and where she caught a glimpse of two huge Chinese vases, to a porch on the other side of the house spread with wicker chairs and tables.  Out of a group of people at the farther end of this porch arose an elderly lady, who came forward and clasped Susan in her arms.

“And is this Honora?  How do you do, my dear?  I had the pleasure of knowing you when you were much younger.”

Honora, too, was gathered to that ample bosom.  Released, she beheld a lady in a mauve satin gown, at the throat of which a cameo brooch was fastened.  Mrs. Holt’s face left no room for conjecture as to the character of its possessor.  Her hair, of a silvering blend, parted in the middle, fitted tightly to her head.  She wore earrings.  In short, her appearance was in every way suggestive of momentum, of a force which the wise would respect.