Dinner was announced.  She took Chiltern’s arm, and they fell into file behind a lady in yellow, with a long train, who looked at her rather hard.  It was Mrs. Freddy Maitland.  Her glance shifted to Chiltern, and it seemed to Honora that she started a little.

“Hello, Hugh,” she said indifferently, looking back over her shoulder; “have you turned up again?”

“Still sticking to the same side of your horse, I see.” he replied, ignoring the question.  “I told you you’d get lop-sided.”

The deformity, if there were any, did not seem to trouble her.

“I’m going to Florida Wednesday.  We want another man.  Think it over.”

“Sorry, but I’ve got something else to do,” he said.

“The devil and idle hands,” retorted Mrs. Maitland.

Honora was sure as she could be that Chiltern was angry, although he gave no visible sign of this.  It was as though the current ran from his arm into hers.

“Have you been away?” she asked.

“It seems to me as though I had never been anywhere else,” he answered, and he glanced curiously at the guests ranging about the great, flower-laden table.  They sat down.

She was a little repelled, a little piqued; and a little relieved when the man on her other side spoke to her, and she recognized Mr. Reginald Farwell, the architect.  The table capriciously swung that way.  She did not feel prepared to talk to Mr. Chiltern.  And before entering upon her explorations she was in need of a guide.  She could have found none more charming, none more impersonal, none more subtly aware of her wants (which had once been his) than Mr. Farwell.  With his hair parted with geometrical precision from the back of his collar to his forehead, with his silky mustache and eyes of soft hazel lights, he was all things to all men and women—­within reason.  He was an achievement that civilization had not hitherto produced, a combination of the Beaux Arts and the Jockey Club and American adaptability.  He was of those upon whom labour leaves no trace.

There were preliminaries, mutually satisfactory.  To see Mrs. Spence was never to forget her, but more delicately intimated.  He remembered to have caught a glimpse of her at the Quicksands Club, and Mrs. Dallam nor her house were not mentioned by either.  Honora could not have been in New York Long.  No, it was her first winter, and she felt like a stranger.  Would Mr. Farwell tell her who some of these people were?  Nothing charmed Mr. Farwell so much as simplicity—­when it was combined with personal attractions.  He did not say so, but contrived to intimate the former.

“It’s always difficult when one first comes to New York,” he declared, “but it soon straightens itself out, and one is surprised at how few people there are, after all.  We’ll begin on Cecil’s right.  That’s Mrs. George Grenfell.”

“Oh, yes,” said Honora, looking at a tall, thin woman of middle age who wore a tiara, and whose throat was covered with jewels.  Honora did not imply that Mrs. Grenfell’s name, and most of those that followed, were extremely familiar to her.