She refused an invitation to dine out, and retired shortly after her own dinner with a novel so distracting that she gradually regained an equable frame of mind.  The uneasiness, the vague fear of the future, wore away, and she slept peacefully.  In the morning, however; she found on her breakfast tray a note from Trixton Brent.

Her first feeling after reading it was one of relief that he had not mentioned the house.  He had written from a New York club, asking her to lunch with him at Delmonico’s that day and drive home in the motor.  No answer was required:  if she did not appear at one o’clock, he would know she couldn’t come.

Honora took the eleven o’clock train, which gave her an hour after she arrived in New York to do as she pleased.  Her first idea, as she stood for a moment amidst the clamour of the traffic in front of the ferry house, was to call on Mrs. Holt at that lady’s hotel; and then she remembered that the Charities Conference began at eleven, and decided to pay a visit to Madame Dumond, who made a specialty of importing novelties in dress.  Her costume for the prospective excursion in the automobile had cost Honora some thought that morning.  As the day was cool, she had brought along an ulster that was irreproachable.  But how about the hat and veil?

Madame Dumond was enchanted.  She had them both,—­she had landed with them only last week.  She tried them on Honora, and stood back with her hands clasped in an ecstasy she did not attempt to hide.  What a satisfaction to sell things to Mrs. Spence!  Some ladies she could mention would look like frights in them, but Madame Spence had ‘de la race’.  She could wear anything that was chic.  The hat and veil, said Madame, with a simper, were sixty dollars.

“Sixty dollars!” exclaimed Honora.

“Ah, madame, what would you?” Novelties were novelties, the United States Custom authorities robbers.

Having attended to these important details, Honora drove to the restaurant in her hansom cab, the blood coursing pleasantly in her veins.  The autumn air sparkled, and New York was showing signs of animation.  She glanced furtively into the little mirror at the side.  Her veil was grey, and with the hat gave her somewhat the air of a religieuse, an aspect heightened by the perfect oval of her face; and something akin to a religious thrill ran through her.

The automobile, with its brass and varnish shining in the sunlight, was waiting a little way up the street, and the first person Honora met in the vestibule of Delmonico’s was Lula Chandos.  She was, as usual, elaborately dressed, and gave one the impression of being lost, so anxiously was she scanning the face of every new arrival.

“Oh, my dear,” she cried, staring hard at the hat and the veil, “have you seen Clara Trowbridge anywhere?”

A certain pity possessed Honora as she shook her head.

“She was in town this morning,” continued Mrs. Chandos, “and I was sure she was coming here to lunch.  Trixy just drove up a moment ago in his new car.  Did you see it?”