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.”