And I hope you will be
comfortable."

Comfortable! When the door had closed, Honora glanced around her and
sighed, "comfort" seemed such a strangely inadequate word. She was
reminded of the illustrations she had seen of English country houses.
The bed alone would almost have filled her little room at home. On the
farther side, in an alcove, was a huge dressing-table; a fire was laid
in the grate of the marble mantel, the curtains in the bay window were
tightly drawn, and near by was a lounge with a reading-light. A huge
mahogany wardrobe occupied one corner; in another stood a pier glass,
and in another, near the lounge, was a small bookcase filled with
books. Honora looked over them curiously. "Robert Elsmere" and a life
of Christ, "Mr. Isaacs," a book of sermons by an eminent clergyman,
"Innocents Abroad," Hare's "Walks in Rome," "When a Man's Single," by
Barrie, a book of meditations, and "Organized Charities for Women."

Adjoining the bedroom was a bathroom in proportion, evidently all her
own,--with a huge porcelain tub and a table set with toilet bottles
containing liquids of various colours.

Dreamily, Honora slipped on the new dressing-gown Aunt Mary had made for
her, and took a book out of the bookcase. It was the volume of sermons.
But she could not read: she was forever looking about the room, and
thinking of the family she had met downstairs. Of course, when one lived
in a house like this, one could afford to dress and act as one liked.
She was aroused from her reflections by the soft but penetrating notes
of a Japanese gong, followed by a gentle knock on the door and the
entrance of an elderly maid, who informed her it was time to dress for
dinner.

"If you'll excuse me, Miss," said that hitherto silent individual when
the operation was completed, "you do look lovely."

Honora, secretly, was of that opinion too as she surveyed herself in the
long glass. The simple summer silk, of a deep and glowing pink, rivalled
the colour in her cheeks, and contrasted with the dark and shining
masses of her hair; and on her neck glistened a little pendant of her
mother's jewels, which Aunt Mary, with Cousin Eleanor's assistance, had
had set in New York. Honora's figure was that of a woman of five and
twenty: her neck was a slender column, her head well set, and the look
of race, which had been hers since childhood, was at nineteen more
accentuated. All this she saw, and went down the stairs in a kind of
exultation.