“And then?” prompted Honora, with interest.

“It’s only fair to Hugh,” Farwell continued, “to take his early years into account.  The General never understood him, and his mother died before he went off to school.  Men who were at Harvard with him say he has a brilliant mind, but he spent most of his time across the Charles River breaking things.  It was, probably, the energy the General got rid of at Gettysburg.  What Hugh really needed was a war, and he had too much money.  He has a curious literary streak, I’m told, and wrote a rather remarkable article—­I’ve forgotten just where it appeared.  He raced a yacht for a while in a dare-devil, fiendish way, as one might expect; and used to go off on cruises and not be heard of for months.  At last he got engaged to Sally Harrington—­Mrs. Freddy Maitland.”

Honora glanced across the table.

“Exactly,” said Mr. Farwell.  “That was seven or eight years ago.  Nobody ever knew the reason why she broke it—­though it may have been pretty closely guessed.  He went away, and nobody’s laid eyes on him until he turned up to-night.”

Honora’s innocence was not too great to enable her to read between the lines of this biography which Reginald Farwell had related with such praiseworthy delicacy.  It was a biography, she well knew, that, like a score of others, had been guarded as jealously as possible within the circle on the borders of which she now found herself.  Mrs. Grainger with her charities, Mrs. Littleton Pryor with her good works, Miss Godfrey with her virtue—­all swallowed it as gracefully as possible.  Noblesse oblige.  Honora had read French and English memoirs, and knew that history repeats itself.  And a biography that is printed in black letter and illuminated in gold is attractive in spite of its contents.  The contents, indeed, our heroine had not found uninteresting, and she turned now to the subject with a flutter of anticipation.

He looked at her intently, almost boldly, she thought, and before she dropped her eyes she had made a discovery.  The thing stamped upon his face and burning in his eyes was not world-weariness, disappointment, despair.  She could not tell what it was, yet; that it was none of these, she knew.  It was not unrelated to experience, but transcended it.  There was an element of purpose in it, of determination, almost—­she would have believed—­of hope.  That Mrs. Maitland nor any other woman was a part of it she became equally sure.  Nothing could have been more commonplace than the conversation which began, and yet it held for her, between the lines as in the biography, the thrill of interest.  She was a woman, and embarked on a voyage of discovery.

“Do you live in New York?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Honora, “since this autumn.”

“I’ve been away a good many years,” he said, in explanation of his question.  “I haven’t quite got my bearings.  I can’t tell you how queerly this sort of thing affects me.”