“I’ve always told you I wasn’t going to marry you, Peter,” said Honora, with decision.

“Why by not?” He always asked that question.

Honora sighed.

“I’ll make a good husband,” said Peter; “I’ll promise.  Ugly men are always good husbands.”

“I didn’t say you were ugly,” declared the ever considerate Honora.

“Only my nose is too big,” he quoted; “and I am too long one way and not wide enough.”

“You have a certain air of distinction in spite of it,” said Honora.

Uncle Tom’s newspaper began to shake, and he read more industriously than ever.

“You’ve been reading—­novels!” said Peter, in a terrible judicial voice.

Honora flushed guiltily, and resumed her inspection of the stocking.  Miss Rossiter, a maiden lady of somewhat romantic tendencies, was librarian of the Book Club that year.  And as a result a book called “Harold’s Quest,” by an author who shall be nameless, had come to the house.  And it was Harold who had had “a certain air of distinction.”

“It isn’t very kind of you to make fun of me when I pay you a compliment,” replied Honora, with dignity.

“I was naturally put out,” he declared gravely, “because you said you wouldn’t marry me.  But I don’t intend to give up.  No man who is worth his salt ever gives up.”

“You are old enough to get married now,” said Honora, still considerate.

“But I am not rich enough,” said Peter; “and besides, I want you.”

One of the first entries in the morocco diary—­which had a lock and key to it—­was a description of Honora’s future husband.  We cannot violate the lock, nor steal the key from under her pillow.  But this much, alas, may be said with discretion, that he bore no resemblance to Peter Erwin.  It may be guessed, however, that he contained something of Harold, and more of Randolph Leffingwell; and that he did not live in St. Louis.

An event of Christmas, after church, was the dinner of which Uncle Tom and Aunt Mary and Honora partook with Cousin Eleanor Hanbury, who had been a Leffingwell, and was a first cousin of Honora’s father.  Honora loved the atmosphere of the massive, yellow stone house in Wayland Square, with its tall polished mahogany doors and thick carpets, with its deferential darky servants, some of whom had been the slaves of her great uncle.  To Honora, gifted with imagination, the house had an odour all its own; a rich, clean odour significant, in later life, of wealth and luxury and spotless housekeeping.  And she knew it from top to bottom.  The spacious upper floor, which in ordinary dwellings would have been an attic, was the realm of young George and his sisters, Edith and Mary (Aunt Mary’s namesake).  Rainy Saturdays, all too brief, Honora had passed there, when the big dolls’ house in the playroom became the scene of domestic dramas which Edith rehearsed after she went to bed, although Mary took them more calmly.  In his tenderer years, Honora even fired George, and riots occurred which took the combined efforts of Cousin Eleanor and Mammy Lucy to quell.  It may be remarked, in passing, that Cousin Eleanor looked with suspicion upon this imaginative gift of Honora’s, and had several serious conversations with Aunt Mary on the subject.