“Howard,” she asked unexpectedly one evening, as he sat smoking beside the blue tiled mantel, “have you got on your winter flannels?”

“I’ll bet a hundred dollars to ten cents,” he cried, “that you’ve been lunching with Mrs. Holt.”

“I think you’re horrid,” said Honora.

Something must be said for her.  Domestic virtue, in the face of such mocking heresy, is exceptionally difficult of attainment.

Mrs. Holt had not been satisfied with Honora’s and Susan’s accounts of the house in Stafford Park.  She felt called upon to inspect it.  And for this purpose, in the spring following Honora’s marriage, she made a pilgrimage to Rivington and spent the day.  Honora met her at the station, and the drive homeward was occupied in answering innumerable questions on the characters, conditions, and modes of life of Honora’s neighbours.

“Now, my dear,” said Mrs. Holt, when they were seated before the fire after lunch, “I want you to feel that you can come to me for everything.  I must congratulate you and Howard on being sensible enough to start your married life simply, in the country.  I shall never forget the little house in which Mr. Holt and I began, and how blissfully happy I was.”  The good lady reached out and took Honora’s hand in her own.  “Not that your deep feeling for your husband will ever change.  But men are more difficult to manage as they grow older, my dear, and the best of them require a little managing for their own good.  And increased establishments bring added cares and responsibilities.  Now that I am here, I have formed a very fair notion of what it ought to cost you to live in such a place.  And I shall be glad to go over your housekeeping books with you, and tell you if you are being cheated as I dare say you are.”

“Oh, Mrs. Holt,” Honora faltered, “I—­I haven’t kept any books.  Howard just pays the bills.”

“You mean to say he hasn’t given you any allowance!” cried Mrs. Holt, aghast.  “You don’t know what it costs to run this house?”

“No,” said Honora, humbly.  “I never thought of it.  I have no idea what Howard’s income may be.”

“I’ll write to Howard myself—­to-night,” declared Mrs. Holt.

“Please don’t, Mrs. Holt.  I’ll—­I’ll speak to him,” said Honora.

“Very well, then,” the good lady agreed, “and I will send you one of my own books, with my own system, as soon as I get home.  It is not your fault, my dear, it is Howard’s.  It is little short of criminal of him.  I suppose this is one of the pernicious results of being on the Stock Exchange.  New York is nothing like what it was when I was a girl—­the extravagance by everybody is actually appalling.  The whole city is bent upon lavishness and pleasure.  And I am afraid it is very often the wives, Honora, who take the lead in prodigality.  It all tends, my dear, to loosen the marriage tie—­especially this frightful habit of dining in hotels and restaurants.”