inded her of the shutters of a camera, and she had the feeling of
sitting for thousands of instantaneous photographs for his benefit. She
was by turns annoyed, amused, and distrait: Peter was leaving his hotel;
now he was taking the train. Was he thinking of her? He had said he
was glad she was happy! She caught herself up with a start after one
of these silences to realize that Mr. Grainger was making unwonted and
indeed pathetic exertions to entertain her, and it needed no feminine
eye to perceive that he was thoroughly uncomfortable. She had,
unconsciously and in thinking of Peter, rather overdone the note of
rebuke of his visit. And Honora was, above all else, an artist. His air
was distinctly apologetic as he rose, perhaps a little mortified, like
that of a man who has got into the wrong house.

"I very much fear I've intruded, Mrs. Spence," he stammered, and he was
winking now with bewildering rapidity. "We--we had such a pleasant drive
together that day to Westchester--I was tempted--"

"We did have a good time," she agreed. "And it has been a pleasure to
see you again."

Thus, in the kindness of her heart, she assisted him to cover his
retreat, for it was a strange and somewhat awful experience to see Mr.
Cecil Grainger discountenanced. He glanced again, as he went out, at the
chair in which he had been forbidden to sit.

She went to the piano, played over a few bars of Thais, and dropped her
hands listlessly. Cross currents of the strange events of the day
flowed through her mind: Peter's arrival and its odd heralding, and the
discomfort of Mr. Grainger.

Howard came in. He did not see her under the shaded lamp, and she sat
watching him with a curious feeling of detachment as he unfolded his
newspaper and sank, with a sigh of content, into the cushioned chair
which Mr. Grainger had vacated. Was it fancy that her husband's physical
attributes had changed since he had attained his new position of
dignity? She could have sworn that he had visibly swollen on the evening
when he had announced to her his promotion, and he seemed to have
remained swollen. Not bloated, of course: he was fatter, and--if
possible pinker. But there was a growing suggestion in him of
humming-and-hawing greatness. If there--were leisure in this
too-leisurely chronicle for what might be called aftermath, the dinner
that Honora had given to some of her Quicksands friends might be
described. Suffice it to recall, with Honora, that Lily Da