“Hope you’ll forgive my comin’ ’round on such slight acquaintance, Mrs. Spence,” said he.  “Couldn’t resist the opportunity to pay my respects.  Shorter told me where you were.”

“That was very good of Mr. Shorter,” said Honora, whose surprise had given place to a very natural resentment, since she had not the honour of knowing Mrs. Grainger.

“Oh,” said Mr. Grainger, “Shorter’s a good sort.  Said he’d been here himself to see how you were fixed, and hadn’t found you in.  Uncommonly well fixed, I should say,” he added, glancing around the room with undisguised approval.  “Why the deuce did she furnish it, since she’s gone to Paris to live with Rindge?”

“I suppose you mean Mrs. Rindge,” said Honora.  “She didn’t furnish it.”

Mr. Grainger winked at her rapidly, like a man suddenly brought face to face with a mystery.

“Oh!” he replied, as though he had solved it.  The solution came a few moments later.  “It’s ripping!” he said.  “Farwell couldn’t have done it any better.”

Honora laughed, and momentarily forgot her resentment.

“Will you have tea?” she asked.  “Oh, don’t sit down there!”

“Why not?” he asked, jumping.  It was the chair that had held Peter, and Mr. Grainger examined the seat as though he suspected a bent pin.

“Because,” said Honora, “because it isn’t comfortable.  Pull up that other one.”

Again mystified, he did as he was told.  She remembered his reputation for going to sleep, and wondered whether she had been wise in her second choice.  But it soon became apparent that Mr. Grainger, as he gazed at her from among the cushions, had no intention of dozing, His eyelids reminded her of the shutters of a camera, and she had the feeling of sitting for thousands of instantaneous photographs for his benefit.  She was by turns annoyed, amused, and distrait:  Peter was leaving his hotel; now he was taking the train.  Was he thinking of her?  He had said he was glad she was happy!  She caught herself up with a start after one of these silences to realize that Mr. Grainger was making unwonted and indeed pathetic exertions to entertain her, and it needed no feminine eye to perceive that he was thoroughly uncomfortable.  She had, unconsciously and in thinking of Peter, rather overdone the note of rebuke of his visit.  And Honora was, above all else, an artist.  His air was distinctly apologetic as he rose, perhaps a little mortified, like that of a man who has got into the wrong house.

“I very much fear I’ve intruded, Mrs. Spence,” he stammered, and he was winking now with bewildering rapidity.  “We—­we had such a pleasant drive together that day to Westchester—­I was tempted—­”

“We did have a good time,” she agreed.  “And it has been a pleasure to see you again.”

Thus, in the kindness of her heart, she assisted him to cover his retreat, for it was a strange and somewhat awful experience to see Mr. Cecil Grainger discountenanced.  He glanced again, as he went out, at the chair in which he had been forbidden to sit.