The next morning a mysterious change seemed to have passed over the members of the family during the night.  It was Sunday.  Honora, when she left her room, heard a swishing on the stairs—­Mrs. Joshua, stiffly arrayed for the day.  Even Mrs. Robert swished, but Mrs. Holt, in a bronze-coloured silk, swished most of all as she entered the library after a brief errand to the housekeeper’s room.  Mr. Holt was already arranging his book-marks in the Bible, while Joshua and Robert, in black cutaways that seemed to have the benumbing and paralyzing effect of strait-jackets, wandered aimlessly about the room, as though its walls were the limit of their movements.  The children had a subdued and touch-me-not air that reminded Honora of her own youth.

It was not until prayers were over and the solemn gathering seated at the breakfast table that Mr. Spence burst upon it like an aurora.  His flannel suit was of the lightest of grays; he wore white tennis shoes and a red tie, and it was plain, as he cheerfully bade them good morning, that he was wholly unaware of the enormity of his costume.  There was a choking, breathless moment before Mrs. Holt broke the silence.

“Surely, Howard,” she said, “you’re not going to church in those clothes.”

“I hadn’t thought of going to church,” replied Mr. Spence, helping himself to cherries.

“What do you intend to do?” asked his hostess.

“Read the stock reports for the week as soon as the newspapers arrive.”

“There is no such thing as a Sunday newspaper in my house,” said Mrs. Holt.

“No Sunday newspapers!” he exclaimed.  And his eyes, as they encountered Honora’s,—­who sought to avoid them,—­expressed a genuine dismay.

“I am afraid,” said Mrs. Holt, “that I was right when I spoke of the pernicious effect of Wall Street upon young men.  Your mother did not approve of Sunday newspapers.”

During the rest of the meal, although he made a valiant attempt to hold his own, Mr. Spence was, so to speak, outlawed.  Robert and Joshua must have had a secret sympathy for him.  One of them mentioned the Vicomte.

“The Vicomte is a foreigner,” declared Mrs. Holt.  “I am in no sense responsible for him.”

The Vicomte was at that moment propped up in bed, complaining to his valet about the weakness of the coffee.  He made the remark (which he afterwards repeated to Honora) that weak coffee and the Protestant religion seemed inseparable; but he did not attempt to discover the whereabouts, in Sutton, of the Church of his fathers.  He was not in the best of humours that morning, and his toilet had advanced no further when, an hour or so later, he perceived from behind his lace curtains Mr. Howard Spence, dressed with comparative soberness, handing Honora into the omnibus.  The incident did not serve to improve the cynical mood in which the Vicomte found himself.