“But my dear,” protested Mrs. Holt, “you must meet some of the members of the Society.  Bessie!”

Mrs. Grainger, indeed—­for Honora had been right in her surmise—­was standing within ear-shot of this conversation.  And Honora, who knew she was there, could not help feeling that she took a rather redoubtable interest in it.  At Mrs. Holt’s words she turned.

“Bessie, I’ve found a new recruit—­one that I can answer for, Mrs. Spence, whom I spoke to you about.”

Mrs. Grainger bestowed upon Honora her enigmatic smile.

“Oh,” she declared, “I’ve heard of Mrs. Spence from other sources, and I’ve seen her, too.”

Honora grew a fiery red.  There was obviously no answer to such a remark, which seemed the quintessence of rudeness.  But Mrs. Grainger continued to smile, and to stare at her with the air of trying to solve a riddle.

“I’m coming to see you, if I may,” she said.  “I’ve been intending to since I’ve been in town, but I’m always so busy that I don’t get time to do the things I want to do.”

An announcement that fairly took away Honora’s breath.  She managed to express her appreciation of Mrs. Grainger’s intention, and presently found herself walking rapidly up-town through swirling snow, somewhat dazed by the events of the afternoon.  And these, by the way, were not yet finished.  As she reached her own door, a voice vaguely familiar called her name.

“Honora!”

She turned.  The slim, tall figure of a young woman descended from a carriage and crossed the pavement, and in the soft light of the vestibule she recognized Ethel Wing.

“I’m so glad I caught you,” said that young lady when they entered the drawing-room.  And she gazed at her school friend.  The colour glowed in Honora’s cheeks, but health alone could not account for the sparkle in her eyes.  “Why, you look radiant.  You are more beautiful than you were at Sutcliffe.  Is it marriage?”

Honora laughed happily, and they sat down side by side on the lounge behind the tea table.

“I heard you’d married,” said Ethel, “but I didn’t know what had become of you until the other day.  Jim never tells me anything.  It appears that he’s seen something of you.  But it wasn’t from Jim that I heard about you first.  You’d never guess who told me you were here.”

“Who?” asked Honora, curiously.

“Mr. Erwin.”

“Peter Erwin!”

“I’m perfectly shameless,” proclaimed Ethel Wing.  “I’ve lost my heart to him, and I don’t care who knows it.  Why in the world didn’t you marry him?”

“But—­where did you see him?” Honora demanded as soon as she could command herself sufficiently to speak.  Her voice must have sounded odd.  Ethel did not appear to notice that.

“He lunched with us one day when father had gout.  Didn’t he tell you about it?  He said he was coming to see you that afternoon.”

“Yes—­he came.  But he didn’t mention being at lunch at your house.”