“Oh, no!” she cried, blushing to her temples.  “A young lawyer would do very well.”

The clerk reflected.  He glanced at Honora again; and later in the day she divined what had been going on in his mind.

“Well,” he said, “there are a great many.  I happen to think of Mr. Wentworth, because he was in the hotel this morning.  He is in the Tremont Building.”

She thanked him hurriedly, and was driven to the Tremont Building, through the soggy street that faced the still dripping trees of the Common.  Mounting in the elevator, she read on the glass door amongst the names of the four members of the firm that of Alden Wentworth, and suddenly found herself face to face with the young man, in his private office.  He was well groomed and deeply tanned, and he rose to meet her with a smile that revealed a line of perfect white teeth.

“How do you do, Mrs. Spence?” he said.  “I did not think, when I met you at Mrs. Grenfell’s, that I should see you so soon in Boston.  Won’t you sit down?”

Honora sat down.  There seemed nothing else to do.  She remembered him perfectly now, and she realized that the nimble-witted clerk had meant to send her to a gentleman.

“I thought,” she faltered, “I thought I was coming to a—­a stranger.  They gave me your address at the hotel—­when I asked for a lawyer.”

“Perhaps,” suggested Mr. Wentworth, delicately, “perhaps you would prefer to go to some one else.  I can give you any number of addresses, if you like.”

She looked up at him gratefully.  He seemed very human and understanding, —­very honourable.  He belonged to her generation, after all, and she feared an older man.

“If you will be kind enough to listen to me, I think I will stay here.  It is only a matter of—­of knowledge of the law.”  She looked at him again, and the pathos of her smile went straight to his heart.  For Mr. Wentworth possessed that organ, although he did not wear it on his sleeve.

He crossed the room, closed the door, and sat down beside her.

“Anything I can do,” he said.

She glanced at him once more, helplessly.

“I do not know how to tell you,” she began.  “It all seems so dreadful.”  She paused, but he had the lawyer’s gift of silence—­of sympathetic silence.  “I want to get a divorce from my husband.”

If Mr. Wentworth was surprised, he concealed it admirably.  His attitude of sympathy did not change, but he managed to ask her, in a business-like tone which she welcomed:—­“On what grounds?”

“I was going to ask you that question,” said Honora.

This time Mr. Wentworth was surprised—­genuinely so, and he showed it.

“But, my dear Mrs. Spence,” he protested, “you must remember that—­that I know nothing of the case.”

“What are the grounds one can get divorced on?” she asked.

He coloured a little under his tan.

“They are different in different states,” he replied.  “I think—­perhaps —­the best way would be to read you the Massachusetts statutes.”