“Oh, Susan,” she said, “every one has been so kind.  And I can’t tell you how much I am enjoying this experience, which I feel I owe to you.”

“I am so happy, dear, that it is giving you pleasure,” said Susan.

“And don’t think,” exclaimed Honora, “that you won’t see lots of me, for you will.”

Her heart warmed to Susan, yet she could not but feel a secret pity for her, as one unable to make the most of her opportunities in the wonderful neighbourhood in which she lived.  As they drove through the roads and in and out of the well-kept places, everybody they met had a bow and a smile for her friend—­a greeting such as people give to those for whom they have only good-will.  Young men and girls waved their racquets at her from the tennis-courts; and Honora envied them and wished that she, too, were a part of the gay life she saw, and were playing instead of being driven decorously about.  She admired the trim, new houses in which they lived, set upon the slopes of the hills.  Pleasure houses, they seemed to her, built expressly for joys which had been denied her.

“Do you see much of—­of these people, Susan?” she asked.

“Not so much as I’d like,” replied Susan, seriously.  “I never seem to get time.  We nearly always have guests at Silverdale, and then there are so many things one has to attend to.  Perhaps you have noticed,” she added, smiling a little, “that we are very serious and old-fashioned.”

“Oh, no indeed,” protested Honora.  “It is such a wonderful experience for me to be here!”

“Well,” said Susan, “we’re having some young people to dinner to-night, and others next week—­that’s why I’m leaving these notes.  And then we shall be a little livelier.”

“Really, Susan, you mustn’t think that I’m not having a good time.  It is exciting to be in the same house with a real French Vicomte, and I like Mr. Spence tremendously.”

Her friend was silent.

“Don’t you?” demanded Honora.

To her surprise, the usually tolerant Susan did not wholly approve of Mr. Spence.

“He is a guest, and I ought not to criticise him,” she answered.  “But since you ask me, Honora, I have to be honest.  It seems to me that his ambitions are a little sordid—­that he is too intent upon growing rich.”

“But I thought all New Yorkers were that way,” exclaimed Honora, and added hastily, “except a few, like your family, Susan.”

Susan laughed.

“You should marry a diplomat, my dear,” she said.  “After all, perhaps I am a little harsh.  But there is a spirit of selfishness and—­and of vulgarity in modern, fashionable New York which appears to be catching, like a disease.  The worship of financial success seems to be in every one’s blood.”

“It is power,” said Honora.

Susan glanced at her, but Honora did not remark the expression on her friend’s face, so intent was she on the reflections which Susan’s words had aroused.  They had reached the far end of the Silverdale domain, and were driving along the shore of the lake that lay like a sapphire set amongst the green hills.  It was here that the new house of the Robert Holts was building.  Presently they came to Joshua’s dairy farm, and Joshua himself was standing in the doorway of one of his immaculate barn Honora put her hand on Susan’s arm.