ra, and stood back with her hands
clasped in an ecstasy she did not attempt to hide. What a satisfaction to
sell things to Mrs. Spence! Some ladies she could mention would look like
frights in them, but Madame Spence had 'de la race'. She could wear
anything that was chic. The hat and veil, said Madame, with a simper,
were sixty dollars.

"Sixty dollars!" exclaimed Honora.

"Ah, madame, what would you?" Novelties were novelties, the United States
Custom authorities robbers.

Having attended to these important details, Honora drove to the
restaurant in her hansom cab, the blood coursing pleasantly in her veins.
The autumn air sparkled, and New York was showing signs of animation. She
glanced furtively into the little mirror at the side. Her veil was grey,
and with the hat gave her somewhat the air of a religieuse, an aspect
heightened by the perfect oval of her face; and something akin to a
religious thrill ran through her.

The automobile, with its brass and varnish shining in the sunlight, was
waiting a little way up the street, and the first person Honora met in
the vestibule of Delmonico's was Lula Chandos. She was, as usual,
elaborately dressed, and gave one the impression of being lost, so
anxiously was she scanning the face of every new arrival.

"Oh, my dear," she cried, staring hard at the hat and the veil, "have you
seen Clara Trowbridge anywhere?"

A certain pity possessed Honora as she shook her head.

"She was in town this morning," continued Mrs. Chandos, "and I was sure
she was coming here to lunch. Trixy just drove up a moment ago in his new
car. Did you see it?"

Honora's pity turned into a definite contempt.

"I saw an automobile as I came in," she said, but the brevity of her
reply seemed to have no effect upon Mrs. Chandos.

"There he is now, at the entrance to the cafe," she exclaimed.

There, indeed, was Trixton Brent, staring at them from the end of the
hall, and making no attempt to approach them.

"I think I'll go into the dressing-room and leave my coat," said Honora,
outwardly calm but inwardly desperate. Fortunately, Lula made no attempt
to follow her.

"You're a dream in that veil, my dear," Mrs. Chandos called after her.
"Don't forget that we're all dining with you to-night in Quicksands."

Once in the dressing-room, Honora felt like locking the doors and jumping
out of the window. She gave her coat to the maid, rearranged her hair
without any apparent reason, and was leisur