“And we’ve only just got back to New York this minute.”

“Who?” inquired Mrs. Holt.

“Mr. Brent and I,” said Honora, with downcast eyes.

“Good gracious!” exclaimed the elder lady.

“I couldn’t think of anything else to do but come straight here to you,” said Honora, gazing at her friend.  “And oh, I’m so glad to find you.  There’s not another train to Quicksands till after nine.”

“You did quite right, my dear, under the circumstances.  I don’t say you haven’t been foolish, but it’s Howard’s fault quite as much as yours.  He has no business to let you do such things.”

“And what makes it worse,” said Honora, “is that the wires are down to Quicksands, and I can’t telephone Howard, and we have people to dinner, and they don’t know I went to Westchester, and there’s no use telegraphing:  it wouldn’t be delivered till midnight or morning.”

“There, there, my dear, don’t worry.  I know how anxious you feel on your husband’s account—­”

“Oh—­Mrs. Holt, I was going to ask you a great, great favour.  Wouldn’t you go down to Quicksands with me and spend the night—­and pay us a little visit?  You know we would so love to have you!”

“Of course I’ll go down with you, my dear,” said Mrs. Holt.  “I’m surprised that you should think for an instant that I wouldn’t.  It’s my obvious duty.  Martha!” she called, “Martha!”

The door of the bedroom opened, and Mrs. Holt’s elderly maid appeared.  The same maid, by the way, who had closed the shutters that memorable stormy night at Silverdale.  She had, it seemed, a trick of appearing at crises.

“Martha, telephone to Mrs. Edgerly—­you know her number-and say that I am very sorry, but an unexpected duty calls me out of town to-night, and ask her to communicate with the Reverend Mr. Field.  As for staying with you, Honora,” she continued, “I have to be back at Silverdale to-morrow night.  Perhaps you and Howard will come back with me.  My frank opinion is, that a rest from the gayety of Quicksands will do you good.”

“I will come, with pleasure,” said Honora.  “But as for Howard—­I’m afraid he’s too busy.”

“And how about dinner?” asked Mrs. Holt.

“I forgot to say,” said Honora, that Mr. Brent’s downstairs.  He brought me here, of course.  Have you any objection to his dining with us?”

“No,” answered Mrs. Holt, “I think I should like to see him.”

After Mrs. Holt had given instructions to her maid to pack, and Honora had brushed some of the dust of the roads from her costume, they descended to the ladies’ parlour.  At the far end of it a waiter holding a card was standing respectfully, and Trixton Brent was pacing up and down between the windows.  When he caught sight of them he stopped in his tracks, and stared, and stood as if rooted to the carpet.  Honora came forward.

“Oh, Mr. Brent!” she cried, “my old friend, Mrs. Holt, is here, and she’s going to take dinner with us and come down to Quicksands for the night.  May I introduce Mr. Brent.”