“I suffer,” he cried; “ah, no, you cannot look at me without perceiving it—­you who are so heartless.  And when I see you play at golf with that Mr. Spence—!”

“Surely,” said Honora, “you can’t object to my acquiring a new accomplishment when I have the opportunity, and Mr. Spence is so kind and good-natured about it.”

“Do you think I have no eyes?” he exclaimed.  “Have I not seen him look at you like the great animal of Joshua when he wants his supper?  He is without esprit, without soul.  There is nothing inside of him but money-making machinery.”

“The most valuable of all machinery,” she replied, laughingly.

“If I thought you believed that, Mademoiselle, if I thought you were like so many of your countrywomen in this respect, I should leave to-morrow,” he declared.

“Don’t be too sure, Vicomte,” she cautioned him.

If one possessed a sense of humour and a certain knowledge of mankind, the spectacle of a young and successful Wall Street broker at Silverdale that week was apt to be diverting.  Mr. Spence held his own.  He advised the architect to make a specialty of country houses, and promised some day to order one:  he disputed boldly with the other young man as to the practical uses of settlement work, and even measured swords with the missionary.  Needless to say, he was not popular with these gentlemen.  But he was also good-natured and obliging, and he did not object to repeating for the English lady certain phrases which she called “picturesque expressions,” and which she wrote down with a gold pencil.

It is evident, from the Vicomte’s remarks, that he found time to continue Honora’s lessons in golf—­or rather that she found time, in the midst of her manifold and self-imposed duties, to take them.  And in this diversion she was encouraged by Mrs. Holt herself.  On Saturday morning, the heat being unusual, they ended their game by common consent at the fourth hole and descended a wood road to Silver Brook, to a spot which they had visited once before and had found attractive.  Honora, after bathing her face in the pool, perched herself on a boulder.  She was very fresh and radiant.

This fact, if she had not known it, she might have gathered from Mr. Silence’s expression.  He had laid down his coat; his sleeves were rolled up and his arms were tanned, and he stood smoking a cigarette and gazing at her with approbation.  She lowered her eyes.

“Well, we’ve had a pretty good time, haven’t we?” he remarked.

Lightning sometimes fails in its effect, but the look she flashed back at him from under her blue lashes seldom misses.

“I’m afraid I haven’t been a very apt pupil,” she replied modestly.

“You’re on the highroad to a cup,” he assured her.  “If I could take you on for another week” He paused, and an expression came into his eyes which was not new to Honora, nor peculiar to Mr. Silence.  “I have to go back to town on Monday.”