Honora found the compliment somewhat singular.  But she was prepared to forgive New York a few sins in the matter of commercial slang:  New York, which evidently dressed as it liked, and talked as it liked.  But not knowing any more of a gilt-edged security than that it was something to Mr. Spence’s taste, a retort was out of the question.  Then, as though she were doomed that day to complicity, her eyes chanced to encounter an appealing glance from the Vicomte, who was searching with the courage of despair for an English word, which his hostess awaited in stoical silence.  He was trying to give his impressions of Silverdale, in comparison to country places abroad, while Mrs. Robert regarded him enigmatically, and Susan sympathetically.  Honora had an almost irresistible desire to laugh.

“Ah, Madame,” he cried, still looking at Honora, “will you have the kindness to permit me to walk about ever so little?”

“Certainly, Vicomte, and I will go with you.  Get my parasol, Susan.  Perhaps you would like to come, too, Howard,” she added to Mr. Spence; “it has been so long since you were here, and we have made many changes.”

“And you, Mademoiselle,” said the Vicomte to Honora, you will come—­yes?  You are interested in landscape?”

“I love the country,” said Honora.

“It is a pleasure to have a guest who is so appreciative,” said Mrs. Holt.  “Miss Leffingwell was up at seven this morning, and in the garden with my husband.”

“At seven!” exclaimed the Vicomte; “you American young ladies are wonderful.  For example—­” and he was about to approach her to enlarge on this congenial theme when Susan arrived with the parasol, which Mrs. Holt put in his hands.

“We’ll begin, I think, with the view from the summer house,” she said.  “And I will show you how our famous American landscape architect, Mr. Olmstead, has treated the slope.”

There was something humorous, and a little pathetic in the contrasted figures of the Vicomte and their hostess crossing the lawn in front of them.  Mr. Spence paused a moment to light his cigarette, and he seemed to derive infinite pleasure from this juxtaposition.

“Got left,—­didn’t he?” he said.

To this observation there was, obviously, no answer.

“I’m not very strong on foreigners,” he declared.  “An American is good enough for me.  And there’s something about that fellow which would make me a little slow in trusting him with a woman I cared for.”

“If you are beginning to worry over Mrs. Holt,” said Honora, “we’d better walk a little faster.”

Mr. Spence’s delight at this sally was so unrestrained as to cause the couple ahead to turn.  The Vicomte’s expression was reproachful.

“Where’s Susan?” asked Mrs. Holt.

“I think she must have gone in the house,” Honora answered.

“You two seem to be having a very good time.”

“Oh, we’re hitting it off fairly well,” said Mr. Spence, no doubt for the benefit of the Vicomte.  And he added in a confidential tone, “Aren’t we?”