“Another of mother’s menagerie,” remarked Robert.

“I don’t think that’s nice of you, Robert,” said his mother.  “The Vicomte was very kind to your father and me in Paris, and invited us to his chateau in Provence.”

Robert was sceptical.

“Are you sure he had one?” he insisted.

Even Mr. Holt laughed.

“Robert,” said his mother, “I wish Gwen could induce you to travel more.  Perhaps you would learn that all foreigners aren’t fortune-hunters.”

I’ve had an opportunity to observe the ones who come over here, mother.”

“I won’t have a prospective guest discussed,” Mrs. Holt declared, with finality.  “Joshua, you remember my telling you last spring that Martha Spence’s son called on me?” she asked.  “He is in business with a man named Dallam, I believe, and making a great deal of money for a young man.  He is just a year younger than you, Robert.”

“Do you mean that fat, tow-headed boy that used to come up here and eat melons and ride my pony?” inquired Robert.  “Howard Spence?”

Mrs. Holt smiled.

“He isn’t fat any longer, Robert.  Indeed, he’s quite good-looking.  Since his mother died, I had lost trace of him.  But I found a photograph of hers when I was clearing up my desk some months ago, and sent it to him, and he came to thank me.  I forgot to tell you that I invited him for a fortnight any time he chose, and he has just written to ask if he may come now.  I regret to say that he’s on the Stock Exchange—­but I was very fond of his mother.  It doesn’t seem to me quite a legitimate business.”

“Why!” exclaimed little Mrs. Joshua, unexpectedly, “I’m given to understand that the Stock Exchange is quite aristocratic in these days.”

“I’m afraid I am old-fashioned, my dear,” said Mrs. Holt, rising.  “It has always seemed to me little better than a gambling place.  Honora, if you still wish to go to the Girls’ Home, I have ordered the carriage in a quarter of an hour.”

CHAPTER VIII

A CHAPTER OF CONQUESTS

Honora’s interest in the Institution was so lively, and she asked so many questions and praised so highly the work with which the indiscreet young women were occupied that Mrs. Holt patted her hand as they drove homeward.

“My dear,” she said, “I begin to wish I’d adopted you myself.  Perhaps, later on, we can find a husband for you, and you will marry and settle down near us here at Silverdale, and then you can help me with the work.”

“Oh, Mrs. Holt,” she replied, “I should so like to help you, I mean.  And it would be wonderful to live in such a place.  And as for marriage, it seems such a long way off that somehow I never think of it.”

“Naturally,” ejaculated Mrs. Holt, with approval, “a young girl of your age should not.  But, my dear, I am afraid you are destined to have many admirers.  If you had not been so well brought up, and were not naturally so sensible, I should fear for you.”