Mrs. Holt sat down in the chair opposite.

“My dear,” she began, “I told you the other day what an unexpected and welcome comfort and help you have been to me.  You evidently inherit” (Mrs. Holt coughed slightly) “the art of entertaining and pleasing, and I need not warn you, my dear, against the dangers of such a gift.  Your aunt has evidently brought you up with strictness and religious care.  You have been very fortunate.”

“Indeed I have, Mrs. Holt,” echoed Honora, in bewilderment.

“And Susan,” continued Mrs. Holt, “useful and willing as she is, does not possess your gift of taking people off my hands and entertaining them.”

Honora could think of no reply to this.  Her eyes—­to which no one could be indifferent—­were riveted on the face of her hostess, and how was the good lady to guess that her brain was reeling?

I was about to say, my dear, that I expect to have a great deal of—­well, of rather difficult company this summer.  Next week, for instance, some prominent women in the Working Girls’ Relief Society are coming, and on July the twenty-third I give a garden party for the delegates to the Charity Conference in New York.  The Japanese Minister has promised to pay me a visit, and Sir Rupert Grant, who built those remarkable tuberculosis homes in England, you know, is arriving in August with his family.  Then there are some foreign artists.”

“Oh, Mrs. Holt,” exclaimed Honora; “how many interesting people you see!”

“Exactly, my dear.  And I thought that, in addition to the fact that I have grown very fond of you, you would be very useful to me here, and that a summer with me might not be without its advantages.  As your aunt will have you until you are married, which, I may say, without denying your attractions, is likely to be for some time, I intend to write to her to-night—­with your consent—­and ask her to allow you to remain with me all summer.”

Honora sat transfixed, staring painfully at the big pendant ear-rings.

“It is so kind of you, Mrs. Holt—­” she faltered.

“I can realize, my dear, that you would wish to get back to your aunt.  The feeling does you infinite credit.  But, on the other hand, besides the advantages which would accrue to you, it might, to put the matter delicately, be of a little benefit to your relations, who will have to think of your future.”

“Indeed, it is good of you, but I must go back, Mrs. Holt.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Holt, with a touch of dignity—­for ere now people had left Silverdale before she wished them to—­“of course, if you do not care to stay, that is quite another thing.”

“Oh, Mrs. Holt, don’t say that!” cried Honora, her face burning; “I cannot thank you enough for the pleasure you have given me.  If—­if things were different, I would stay with you gladly, although I should miss my family.  But now,—­now I feel that I must be with them.  I—­I am engaged to be married.”