sn't Mrs. Grainger worried?" asked Honora.

"Oh, you never can tell anything about her," he said. "Do you know her?
She's a sphinx. All the Pendletons are Stoics. And besides, she's been so
busy with this Charities Conference that she hasn't had time to think of
Cecil. Who's that?"

"That" was a lady from Rivington, one of Honora's former neighbours, to
whom she had bowed. Life, indeed, is full of contrasts. Mr. Cuthbert,
too, was continually bowing and waving to acquaintances on the Avenue.

Thus pleasantly conversing, they arrived at the first house on the list,
and afterwards went through a succession of them. Once inside, Honora
would look helplessly about her in the darkness while her escort would
raise the shades, admitting a gloomy light on bare interiors or shrouded
furniture.

And the rents: Four, five, six, and seven and eight thousand dollars a
year. Pride prevented her from discussing these prices with Mr. Cuthbert;
and in truth, when lunch time came, she had seen nothing which realized
her somewhat vague but persistent ideals.

"I'm so much obliged to you," she said, "and I hope you'll forgive me for
wasting your time."

Mr. Cuthbert smiled broadly, and Honora smiled too.

Indeed, there was something ludicrous in the remark. He assumed an
attitude of reflection.

"I imagine you wouldn't care to go over beyond Lexington Avenue, would
you? I didn't think to ask you."

"No," she replied, blushing a little, "I shouldn't care to go over as far
as that."

He pondered a while longer, when suddenly his face lighted up.

"I've got it!" he cried, "the very thing--why didn't. I think of it?
Dicky Farnham's house, or rather his wife's house. I'll get it straight
after a while,--she isn't his wife any more, you know; she married
Eustace Rindge last month. That's the reason it's for rent. Dicky says
he'll never get married again--you bet! They planned it together, laid
the corner-stone and all that sort of thing, and before it was finished
she had a divorce and had gone abroad with Rindge. I saw her before she
sailed, and she begged me to rent it. But it isn't furnished."

"I might look at it," said Honora, dubiously.

"I'm sure it will just suit you," he declared with enthusiasm. "It's a
real find. We'll drive around by the office and get the keys."

The house was between Fifth Avenue and Madison, on a cross street not far
below Fifty-Ninth, and Honora had scarcely entered the little
oak-panelled hall b