Such had been the more innocent if eccentric diversions with which they had whiled away the time.  When dinner was ended, a renewal of the bridge game was proposed, for it had transpired at the dinner-table that Mrs. Rindge and Hugh had been partners all day, as a result of which there was a considerable balance in their favour.  This balance Mr. Pembroke was palpably anxious to wipe out, or at least to reduce.  But Mrs. Kame insisted that Honora should cut in, and the others supported her.

“We tried our best to get a man for you,” said Mrs. Rindge to Honora.  “Didn’t we, Abby?  But in the little time we had, it was impossible.  The only man we saw was Ned Carrington, and Hugh said he didn’t think you’d want him.”

“Hugh showed a rare perception,” said Honora.

Be it recorded that she smiled.  One course had been clear to her from the first, although she found it infinitely difficult to follow; she was determined, cost what it might, to carry through her part of the affair with dignity, but without stiffness.  This is not the place to dwell upon the tax to her strength.

“Come on, Honora,” said Hugh, “cut in.”  His tone was of what may be termed a rough good nature.  She had not seen him alone since his return, but he had seemed distinctly desirous that she should enjoy the festivities he had provided.  And not to yield would have been to betray herself.

The game, with its intervals of hilarity, was inaugurated in the library, and by midnight it showed no signs of abating.  At this hour the original four occupied the table for the second time, and endurance has its limits.  The atmosphere of Liberty Hall that prevailed made Honora’s retirement easier.

“I’m sure you won’t mind if I go to bed,” she said.  “I’ve been so used to the routine of—­of the chickens.”  She smiled.  “And I’ve spent the day in the open air.”

“Certainly, my dear,” said Mrs. Kame; “I know exactly how one feels in the country.  I’m sure it’s dreadfully late.  We’ll have one more rubber, and then stop.”

“Oh, don’t stop,” replied Honora; “please play as long as you like.”

They didn’t stop—­at least after one more rubber.  Honora, as she lay in the darkness, looking through the open square of her window at the silver stars, heard their voiced and their laughter floating up at intervals from below, and the little clock on her mantel had struck the hour of three when the scraping of chairs announced the breaking up of the party.  And even after that an unconscionable period elapsed, beguiled, undoubtedly, by anecdotes; spells of silence—­when she thought they had gone—­ending in more laughter.  Finally there was a crash of breaking glass, a climax of uproarious mirth, and all was still. . .