Brent leaned over, and began to direct the chauffeur to a well-known hotel.  She interrupted him.

“No,” she said, “I’d rather go to the Holland House.”

“Very well,” he said amicably, not a little surprised at this unlooked-for acquiescence, and then told his man to keep straight on down the Avenue.

She began mechanically to rearrange her hat and veil; and after that, sitting upright, to watch the cross streets with feverish anticipation, her hands in her lap.

“Honora?” he said.

She did not answer.

“Raise the veil, just for a moment, and look at me.”

She shook her head.  But for some reason, best known to herself, she smiled a little.  Perhaps it was because her indignation, which would have frightened many men into repentance, left this one undismayed.  At any rate, he caught the gleam of the smile through the film of her veil, and laughed.

“We’ll have a little table in the corner of the room,” he declared, “and you shall order the dinner.  Here we are,” he cried to the chauffeur.  “Pull up to the right.”

They alighted, crossed the sidewalk, the doors were flung open to receive them, and they entered the hotel.

Through the entrance to the restaurant Honora caught sight of the red glow of candles upon the white tables, and heard the hum of voices.  In the hall, people were talking and laughing in groups, and it came as a distinct surprise to her that their arrival seemed to occasion no remark.  At the moment of getting out of the automobile, her courage had almost failed her.

Trixton Brent hailed one of the hotel servants.

“Show Mrs. Spence to the ladies’ parlour,” said he.  And added to Honora, “I’ll get a table, and have the dinner card brought up in a few moments.”

Honora stopped the boy at the elevator door.

“Go to the office,” she said, “and find out if Mrs. Joshua Holt is in, and the number of her room.  And take me to the telephone booths.  I’ll wait there.”

She asked the telephone operator to call up Mr. Spence’s house at Quicksands—­and waited.

“I’m sorry, madam,” he said, after a little while, which seemed like half an hour to Honora, “but they’ve had a fire in the Kingston exchange, and the Quicksands line is out of order.”

Honora’s heart sank; but the bell-boy had reappeared.  Yes, Mrs. Holt was in.

“Take me to her room,” she said, and followed him into the elevator.

In response to his knock the door was opened by Mrs. Holt herself.  She wore a dove-coloured gown, and in her hand was a copy of the report of the Board of Missions.  For a moment she peered at Honora over the glasses lightly poised on the uncertain rim of her nose.

“Why—­my dear!” she exclaimed, in astonishment.  Honora!”

“Oh,” cried Honora, “I’m so glad you’re here.  I was so afraid you’d be out.”

In the embrace that followed both the glasses and the mission report fell to the floor.  Honora picked them up.