“I know I’m smiling,” replied Howard, “I feel like it, but I can’t help it.  It won’t come off.  I want to blurt out the news to every one in the dining-room—­to that little Frenchman, in particular.”

Honora laughed again.  Her imagination easily summoned up the tableau which such a proceeding would bring forth.  The incredulity, the chagrin, the indignation, even, in some quarters.  He conceived the household, with the exception of the Vicomte, precipitating themselves into his arms.

Honora, who was cool enough herself (no doubt owing to the superior training which women receive in matters of deportment), observed that his entrance was not a triumph of dissimulation.  His colour was high, and his expression, indeed, a little idiotic; and he declared afterwards that he felt like a sandwich-man, with the news printed in red letters before and behind.  Honora knew that the intense improbability of the truth would save them, and it did.  Mrs. Holt remarked, slyly, that the game of golf must have hidden attractions, and regretted that she was too old to learn it.

“We went very slowly on account of the heat,” Howard declared.

“I should say that you had gone very rapidly, from your face,” retorted Mrs. Holt.  In relaxing moods she indulged in banter.

Honora stepped into the breach.  She would not trust her newly acquired fiance to extricate himself.

“We were both very much worried, Mrs. Holt,” she explained, “because we were late for lunch once before.”

“I suppose I’ll have to forgive you, my dear, especially with that colour.  I am modern enough to approve of exercise for young girls, and I am sure your Aunt Mary will think Silverdale has done you good when I send you back to her.”

“Oh, I’m sure she will,” said Honora.

In the meantime Mr. Spence was concentrating all of his attention upon a jellied egg.  Honora glanced at the Vicomte.  He sat very stiff, and his manner of twisting his mustache reminded her of an animal sharpening its claws.  It was at this moment that the butler handed her a telegram, which, with Mrs. Holt’s permission, she opened and read twice before the meaning of it came to her.

“I hope it is no bad news, Honora,” said Mrs. Holt.

“It’s from Peter Erwin,” she replied, still a little dazed.  “He’s in New York.  And he’s corning up on the five o’clock train to spend an hour with me.”

“Oh,” said Susan; “I remember his picture on your bureau at Sutcliffe.  He had such a good face.  And you told me about him.”

“He is like my brother,” Honora explained, aware that Howard was looking at her.  “Only he is much older than I. He used to wheel me up and down when I was a baby.  He was, an errand boy in the bank then, and Uncle Tom took an interest in him, and now he is a lawyer.  A very good one, I believe.”

“I have a great respect for any man who makes his own way in life,” said Mrs. Holt.  “And since he is such an old friend, my dear, you must ask him to spend the night.”