a certain Gallic appearance (and who, if the truth be told, might
have reminded an impartial eye of a slightly animated wax clothing
model), turned, stared, hesitated, and bowed to Lily Dallam.

"That's Reggie Farwel, who did my house in town," she whispered to
Honora. "He's never been near me since it was finished. He's utterly
ruined."

Honora was silent. She tried not to look at the group, in which there
were two women of very attractive appearance, and another man.

"Those people are so superior," Mrs. Dallam continued.

"I'm not surprised at Elsie Shorter. Ever since she married Jerry she's
stuck to the Graingers closer than a sister. That's Cecil Grainger, my
dear, the man who looks as though he were going to fall asleep any
moment. But to think of Abby Kame acting that way! Isn't it ridiculous,
Clara?" she cried, appealing to Mrs. Trowbridge. "They say that Cecil
Grainger never leaves her side. I knew her when she first married John
Kame, the dearest, simplest man that ever was. He was twenty years older
than Abby, and made his money in leather. She took the first steamer
after his funeral and an apartment in a Roman palace for the winter. As
soon as she decently could she made for England. The English will put up
with anybody who has a few million dollars, and I don't deny that Abby's
good-looking, and clever in her way. But it's absurd for her to come over
here and act as though we didn't exist. She needn't be afraid that I'll
speak to her. They say she became intimate with Bessie Grainger through
charities. One of your friend Mrs. Holt's charities, by the way, Honora.
Where are you going?"

For Honora had risen.

"I think I'll go home, Lily," she said; "I'm rather tired."

"Home!" exclaimed Mrs. Dallam. "What can you be thinking of, my dear?
Nobody ever goes home after the Banbury match. The fun has just begun,
and we're all to stay here for dinner and dance afterwards. And Trixy
Brent promised me faithfully he'd' come here for tea, as soon as he
dressed."

"I really can't stay, Lily. I--I don't feel up to it," said Honora,
desperately.

"And you can't know how I counted on you! You look perfectly fresh, my
dear."

Honora felt an overwhelming desire to hide herself, to be alone. In spite
of the cries of protest that followed her and drew--she thought--an
unnecessary and disagreeable attention to her departure, she threaded her
way among groups of people who stared after her. Her colour was high, he