No sooner was she seated in Mrs. Holt’s drawing-room—­filled with camp-chairs for the occasion—­than she found herself listening breathlessly to a recital of personal experiences by a young woman who worked in a bindery on the East side.  Honora’s heart was soft:  her sympathies, as we know, easily aroused.  And after the young woman had told with great simplicity and earnestness of the struggle to support herself and lead an honest and self-respecting existence, it seemed to Honora that at last she had opened the book of life at the proper page.

Afterwards there were questions, and a report by Miss Harber, a middle-aged lady with glasses who was the secretary.  Honora looked around her.  The membership of the Society, judging by those present, was surely of a sufficiently heterogeneous character to satisfy even the catholic tastes of her hostess.  There were elderly ladies, some benevolent and some formidable, some bedecked and others unadorned; there were earnest-looking younger women, to whom dress was evidently a secondary consideration; and there was a sprinkling of others, perfectly gowned, several of whom were gathered in an opposite corner.  Honora’s eyes, as the reading of the report progressed, were drawn by a continual and resistless attraction to this group; or rather to the face of one of the women in it, which seemed to stare out at her like the eat in the tree of an old-fashioned picture puzzle, or the lineaments of George Washington among a mass of boulders on a cliff.  Once one has discovered it, one can see nothing else.  In vain Honora dropped her eyes; some strange fascination compelled her to raise them again until they met those of the other woman:  Did their glances meet?  She could never quite be sure, so disconcerting were the lights in that regard—­lights, seemingly, of laughter and mockery.

Some instinct informed Honora that the woman was Mrs. Grainger, and immediately the scene in the Holland House dining-room came back to her.  Never until now had she felt the full horror of its comedy.  And then, as though to fill the cup of humiliation, came the thought of Cecil Grainger’s call.  She longed, in an agony with which sensitive natures will sympathize, for the reading to be over.

The last paragraph of the report contained tributes to Mrs. Joshua Holt and Mrs. Cecil Grainger for the work each had done during the year, and amidst enthusiastic hand-clapping the formal part of the meeting came to an end.  The servants were entering with tea as Honora made her way towards the door, where she was stopped by Susan Holt.

“My dear Honora,” cried Mrs. Holt, who had hurried after her daughter, “you’re not going?”

Honora suddenly found herself without an excuse.

“I really ought to, Mrs. Holt.  I’ve had such a good time-and I’ve been so interested.  I never realized that such things occurred.  And I’ve got one of the reports, which I intend to read over again.”