“I’m not surprised at Elsie Shorter.  Ever since she married Jerry she’s stuck to the Graingers closer than a sister.  That’s Cecil Grainger, my dear, the man who looks as though he were going to fall asleep any moment.  But to think of Abby Kame acting that way!  Isn’t it ridiculous, Clara?” she cried, appealing to Mrs. Trowbridge.  “They say that Cecil Grainger never leaves her side.  I knew her when she first married John Kame, the dearest, simplest man that ever was.  He was twenty years older than Abby, and made his money in leather.  She took the first steamer after his funeral and an apartment in a Roman palace for the winter.  As soon as she decently could she made for England.  The English will put up with anybody who has a few million dollars, and I don’t deny that Abby’s good-looking, and clever in her way.  But it’s absurd for her to come over here and act as though we didn’t exist.  She needn’t be afraid that I’ll speak to her.  They say she became intimate with Bessie Grainger through charities.  One of your friend Mrs. Holt’s charities, by the way, Honora.  Where are you going?”

For Honora had risen.

“I think I’ll go home, Lily,” she said; “I’m rather tired.”

“Home!” exclaimed Mrs. Dallam.  “What can you be thinking of, my dear?  Nobody ever goes home after the Banbury match.  The fun has just begun, and we’re all to stay here for dinner and dance afterwards.  And Trixy Brent promised me faithfully he’d’ come here for tea, as soon as he dressed.”

“I really can’t stay, Lily.  I—­I don’t feel up to it,” said Honora, desperately.

“And you can’t know how I counted on you!  You look perfectly fresh, my dear.”

Honora felt an overwhelming desire to hide herself, to be alone.  In spite of the cries of protest that followed her and drew—­she thought—­an unnecessary and disagreeable attention to her departure, she threaded her way among groups of people who stared after her.  Her colour was high, her heart beating painfully; a vague sense of rebellion and shame within her for which she did not try to account.  Rather than run the gantlet of the crowded veranda she stepped out on the lawn, and there encountered Trixton Brent.  He had, in an incredibly brief time, changed from his polo clothes to flannels and a straw hat.  He looked at her and whistled, and barred her passage.

“Hello!” he cried.  “Hoity-toity!  Where are we going in such a hurry?”

“Home,” answered Honora, a little breathlessly, and added for his deception, “the game’s over, isn’t it?  I’m glad you won.”

Mr. Brent, however, continued to gaze at her penetratingly, and she avoided his eyes.

“But why are you rushing off like a flushed partridge?—­no reference to your complexion.  Has there been a row?”

“Oh, no—­I was just—­tired.  Please let me go.”

“Being your good angel—­or physician, as you choose—­I have a prescription for that kind of weariness,” he said smilingly.  “I—­anticipated such an attack.  That’s why I got into my clothes in such record time.”