ow, breathing in the
perfumes, gazing out through the horse-chestnut leaves at the green,
shadow-dappled lawn below.

On her breakfast tray, amidst some invitations, was a letter from her.
uncle. This she opened first.

"Dear Honora," he wrote, "amongst your father's papers, which have
been in my possession since his death, was a certificate for three
hundred shares in a land company. He bought them for very little,
and I had always thought them worthless. It turns out that these
holdings are in a part of the state of Texas that is now being
developed; on the advice of Mr. Isham and others I have accepted an
offer of thirty dollars a share, and I enclose a draft on New York
for nine thousand dollars. I need not dwell upon the pleasure it is
for me to send you this legacy from your father. And I shall only
add the counsel of an old uncle, to invest this money by your
husband's advice in some safe securities."...

Honora put down the letter, and sat staring at the cheque in her hand.
Nine thousand dollars--and her own! Her first impulse was to send it
back to her uncle. But that would be, she knew, to hurt his feelings--he
had taken such a pride in handing her this inheritance. She read the
letter again, and resolved that she would not ask Howard to invest the
money. This, at least, should be her very own, and she made up her mind
to take it to a bank in Thames Street that morning.

While she was still under the influence of the excitement aroused by
the unexpected legacy, Mrs. Shorter came in, a lady with whom Honora's
intimacy had been of steady growth. The tie between them might perhaps
have been described as intellectual, for Elsie Shorter professed only
to like people who were "worth while." She lent Honora French plays,
discussed them with her, and likewise a wider range of literature,
including certain brightly bound books on evolution and sociology.

In the eighteenth century, Mrs. Shorter would have had a title and a
salon in the Faubourg: in the twentieth, she was the wife of a most
fashionable and successful real estate agent in New York, and was aware
of no incongruity. Bourgeoise was the last thing that could be said of
her; she was as ready as a George Sand to discuss the whole range of
human emotions; which she did many times a week with certain gentlemen
of intellectual bent who had the habit of calling on her. She had never,
to the knowledge of her acquaintances, been