Honora’s pity turned into a definite contempt.

“I saw an automobile as I came in,” she said, but the brevity of her reply seemed to have no effect upon Mrs. Chandos.

“There he is now, at the entrance to the cafe,” she exclaimed.

There, indeed, was Trixton Brent, staring at them from the end of the hall, and making no attempt to approach them.

“I think I’ll go into the dressing-room and leave my coat,” said Honora, outwardly calm but inwardly desperate.  Fortunately, Lula made no attempt to follow her.

“You’re a dream in that veil, my dear,” Mrs. Chandos called after her.  “Don’t forget that we’re all dining with you to-night in Quicksands.”

Once in the dressing-room, Honora felt like locking the doors and jumping out of the window.  She gave her coat to the maid, rearranged her hair without any apparent reason, and was leisurely putting on her hat again, and wondering what she would do next, when Mrs. Kame appeared.

“Trixy asked me to get you,” she explained.  “Mr. Grainger and I are going to lunch with you.”

“How nice!” said Honora, with such a distinct emphasis of relief that Mrs. Kame looked at her queerly.

“What a fool Trixy was, with all his experience, to get mixed up with that Chandos woman,” that lady remarked as they passed through the hallway.  “She’s like molasses—­one can never get her off.  Lucky thing he found Cecil and me here.  There’s your persistent friend, Trixy,” she added, when they were seated.  “Really, this is pathetic, when an invitation to lunch and a drive in your car would have made her so happy.”

Honora looked around and beheld, indeed, Mrs. Chandos and two other Quicksands women, Mrs. Randall and Mrs. Barclay, at a table in the corner of the room.

“Where’s Bessie to-day, Cecil—­or do you know?” demanded Mrs. Kame, after an amused glance at Brent, who had not deigned to answer her.  “I promised to go to Newport with her at the end of the week, but I haven’t been able to find her.”

“Cecil doesn’t know,” said Trixton Brent.  “The police have been looking for him for a fortnight.  Where the deuce have you been, Cecil?”

“To the Adirondacks,” replied Mr Grainger, gravely.

This explanation, which seemed entirely plausible to Honora, appeared to afford great amusement to Brent, and even to Mrs. Kame.

“When did you come to life?” demanded Brent.

“Yesterday,” said Mr. Grainger, quite as solemnly as before.

Mrs. Kame glanced curiously at Honora, and laughed again.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Trixy,” she said.

“Why?” he asked innocently.  “There’s nothing wrong in going to the Adirondacks—­is there, Cecil?”

“No,” said Mr. Grainger, blinking rapidly.

“The Adirondacks,” declared Mrs. Kame, “have now become classic.”

“By the way,” observed Mr. Grainger, “I believe Bessie’s in town to-day at a charity pow-wow, reading a paper.  I’ve half a mind to go over and listen to it.  The white dove of peace—­and all that kind of thing.”