“Was Cousin Randolph handsome?” Edith demanded.  Mrs. Hanbury started, so vividly there arose before her eyes a brave and dashing figure, clad in grey English cloth, walking by her side on a sunny autumn morning in the Rue de la Paix.  Well she remembered that trip abroad with her mother, Randolph’s aunt, and how attentive he was, and showed them the best restaurants in which to dine.  He had only been in France a short time, but his knowledge of restaurants and the world in general had been amazing, and his acquaintances legion.  He had a way, which there was no resisting, of taking people by storm.

“Yes, dear,” answered Mrs. Hanbury, absently, when the child repeated the question, “he was very handsome.”

“Honora says he would have been President,” put in George.  “Of course I don’t believe it.  She said they lived in a palace by the sea in the south of France, with gardens and fountains and a lot of things like that, and princesses and princes and eunuchs—­”

“And what!” exclaimed Mrs. Hanbury, aghast.

“I know,” said George, contemptuously, “she got that out of the Arabian Nights.”  But this suspicion did not prevent him, the next time Honora regaled them with more adventures of the palace by the summer seas, from listening with a rapt attention.  No two tales were ever alike.  His admiration for Honora did not wane, but increased.  It differed from that of his sisters, however, in being a tribute to her creative faculties, while Edith’s breathless faith pictured her cousin as having passed through as many adventures as Queen Esther.  George paid her a characteristic compliment, but chivalrously drew her aside to bestow it.  He was not one to mince matters.

“You’re a wonder, Honora,” he said.  “If I could lie like that, I wouldn’t want a pony.”

He was forced to draw back a little from the heat of the conflagration he had kindled.

“George Hanbury,” she cried, “don’t you ever speak to me again!  Never!  Do you understand?”

It was thus that George, at some cost, had made a considerable discovery which, for the moment, shook even his scepticism.  Honora believed it all herself.

Cousin Eleanor Hanbury was a person, or personage, who took a deep and abiding interest in her fellow-beings, and the old clothes of the Hanbury family went unerringly to the needy whose figures most resembled those of the original owners.  For Mrs. Hanbury had a wide but comparatively unknown charity list.  She was, secretly, one of the many providence which Honora accepted collectively, although it is by no means certain whether Honora, at this period, would have thanked her cousin for tuition at Miss Farmer’s school, and for her daily tasks at French and music concerning which Aunt Mary was so particular.  On the memorable Christmas morning when, arrayed in green velvet, she arrived with her aunt and uncle for dinner in Wayland Square, Cousin Eleanor drew Aunt Mary into her bedroom and shut the door, and handed her a sealed envelope.  Without opening it, but guessing with much accuracy its contents, Aunt Mary handed it back.