“Won’t you come, too, Miss Leffingwell?” he said, as he took a second cup of coffee.

Somewhat to the astonishment of the Holt family, Robert seconded the invitation.

“I’ll bet, Robert,” said Mr. Spence, gallantly, “that Miss Leffingwell can put it over both of us.”

“Indeed, I can’t play at all,” exclaimed Honora in confusion.  “And I shouldn’t think of spoiling your match.  And besides, I am going to drive with Susan.”

“We can go another day, Honora,” said Susan.

But Honora would not hear of it.

“Come over with me this afternoon, then,” suggested Mr. Spence, “and I’ll give you a lesson.”

She thanked him gratefully.

“But it won’t be much fun for you, I’m afraid,” she added, as they left the dining room.

“Don’t worry about me,” he answered cheerfully.  He was dressed in a checked golf costume, and wore a pink shirt of a new pattern.  And he stood in front of her in the hall, glowing from his night’s sleep, evidently in a high state of amusement.

“What’s the matter?” she demanded.

“You did for the Vicomte all right,” he said.  “I’d give a good deal to see him going through the Institution.”

“It wouldn’t have hurt you, either,” she retorted, and started up the stairs.  Once she glanced back and saw him looking after her.

At the far end of the second story hall she perceived the Vicomte, who had not appeared at breakfast, coming out of his room.  She paused with her hand on the walnut post and laughed a little, so ludicrous was his expression as he approached her.

“Ah, Mademoiselle, que vous etes mechante!” he exclaimed.  “But I forgive you, if you will not go off with that stock-broker.  It must be that I see the Home sometime, and if I go now it is over.  I forgive you.  It is in the Bible that we must forgive our neighbour—­how many times?”

“Seventy times seven,” said Honora.

“But I make a condition,” said the Vicomte, “that my neighbour shall be a woman, and young and beautiful.  Then I care not how many times.  Mademoiselle, if you would but have your portrait painted as you are, with your hand on the post, by Sargent or Carolus Duran, there would be some noise in the Salon.”

“Is that you, Vicomte?” came a voice from the foot of the stairs—­Mrs. Holt’s voice.

“I come this instant, Madame,” he replied, looking over the banisters, and added:  “malheureux que je suis!  Perhaps, when I return, you will show me a little of the garden.”

The duty of exhibiting to guests the sights of Silverdale and the neighbourhood had so often devolved upon Susan, who was methodical, that she had made out a route, or itinerary, for this purpose.  There were some notes to leave and a sick woman and a child to see, which caused her to vary it a little that morning; and Honora, who sat in the sunlight and held the horse, wondered how it would feel to play the lady bountiful.  “I am so glad to have you all to myself for a little while, Honora,” Susan said to her.  “You are so popular that I begin to fear that I shall have to be unselfish, and share you.”