eturned to the soil of his ancestors had been revived on his arrival in
Newport. Ned Carrington, amid much laughter, had quoted the lines about
Prince Hal:

"To mock the expectations of the world,
To frustrate prophecies."

Honora disliked Mr. Carrington.

Perhaps the events of Thursday, would better be left in the confusion in
which they remained in Honora's mind. She was awakened by penetrating,
persistent, and mournful notes which for some time she could not
identify, although they sounded oddly familiar; and it was not until she
felt the dampness of the coverlet and looked at the white square of her
open windows that she realized there was a fog. And it had not lifted
when Chiltern came in the afternoon. They discussed literature--but the
book had fallen to the floor. 'Absit omen'! If printing had then been
invented, undoubtedly there would have been a book instead of an apple in
the third chapter of Genesis. He confided to her his plan of collecting
his father's letters and of writing the General's life. Honora, too,
would enjoy writing a book. Perhaps the thought of the pleasure of
collaboration occurred to them both at once; it was Chiltern who wished
that he might have her help in the difficult places; she had, he felt,
the literary instinct. It was not the Viking who was talking now. And
then, at last, he had risen reluctantly to leave. The afternoon had
flown. She held out her hand with a frank smile.

"Good-by," she said. "Good-by, and good luck."

"But I may not go," he replied.

She stood dismayed.

"I thought you told me you were going on Friday--to-morrow."

"I merely set that as a probable date. I have changed my mind. There is
no immediate necessity. Do you wish me to go?" he demanded.

She had turned away, and was straightening the books on the table.

"Why should I?" she said.

"You wouldn't object to my remaining a few days more?" He had reached the
doorway.

"What have I to do with your staying?" she asked.

"Everything," he answered--and was gone.

She stood still. The feeling that possessed her now was rebellion, and
akin to hate.

Her conduct, therefore, becomes all the more incomprehensible when we
find her accepting, the next afternoon, his invitation to sail on Mr.
Farnham's yacht, the 'Folly'. It is true that the gods will not exonerate
Mrs. Shorter. That lady, who had been bribed with Alfred Dewing, used her
persuasive powers; she might be likened to a