“In my opinion she’s got the best garden in Newport, and she did most of it herself.  Next to her, with the bald head, is Freddy Maitland.  Next to him is Miss Godfrey.  She’s a little eccentric, but she can afford to be—­the Godfreys for generations have done so much for the city.  The man with the beard, next her, is John Laurens, the philanthropist.  That pretty woman, who’s just as nice as she looks, is Mrs. Victor Strange.  She was Agatha Pendleton—­Mrs. Grainger’s cousin.  And the gentleman with the pink face, whom she is entertaining—­”

“Is my husband,” said Honora, smiling.  “I know something about him.”

Mr. Farwell laughed.  He admired her aplomb, and he did not himself change countenance.  Indeed, the incident seemed rather to heighten the confidence between them.  Honora was looking rather critically at Howard.  It was a fact that his face did grow red at this stage of a dinner, and she wondered what Mrs. Strange found to talk to him about.

“And the woman on the other side of him?” she asked.  “By the way, she has a red face, too.”

“So she has,” he replied amusedly.  “That is Mrs. Littleton Pryor, the greatest living rebuke to the modern woman.  Most of those jewels are inherited, but she has accustomed herself by long practice to carry them, as well as other burdens.  She has eight children, and she’s on every charity list.  Her ancestors were the very roots of Manhattan.  She looks like a Holbein—­doesn’t she?”

“And the extraordinary looking man on my right?” Honora asked.  “I’ve got to talk to him presently.”

“Chiltern!” he said.  “Is it possible you haven’t heard something about Hugh Chiltern?”

“Is it such lamentable ignorance?” she asked.

“That depends upon one’s point of view,” he replied.  “He’s always been a sort of a—­well, Viking,” said Farwell.

Honora was struck by the appropriateness of the word.

“Viking—­yes, he looks it exactly.  I couldn’t think.  Tell me something about him.”

“Well,” he laughed, lowering his voice a little, here goes for a little rough and ready editing.  One thing about Chiltern that’s to be admired is that he’s never cared a rap what people think.  Of course, in a way, he never had to.  His family own a section of the state, where they’ve had woollen mills for a hundred years, more or less.  I believe Hugh Chiltern has sold ’em, or they’ve gone into a trust, or something, but the estate is still there, at Grenoble—­one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen.  The General—­this man’s father—­was a violent, dictatorial man.  There is a story about his taking a battery at Gettysburg which is almost incredible.  But he went back to Grenoble after the war, and became the typical public-spirited citizen; built up the mills which his own pioneer grandfather had founded, and all that.  He married an aunt of Mrs. Grainger’s,—­one of those delicate, gentle women who never dare to call their soul their own.”