ought
me here, of course. Have you any objection to his dining with us?"

"No," answered Mrs. Holt, "I think I should like to see him."

After Mrs. Holt had given instructions to her maid to pack, and Honora
had brushed some of the dust of the roads from her costume, they
descended to the ladies' parlour. At the far end of it a waiter holding a
card was standing respectfully, and Trixton Brent was pacing up and down
between the windows. When he caught sight of them he stopped in his
tracks, and stared, and stood as if rooted to the carpet. Honora came
forward.

"Oh, Mr. Brent!" she cried, "my old friend, Mrs. Holt, is here, and she's
going to take dinner with us and come down to Quicksands for the night.
May I introduce Mr. Brent."

"Wasn't it fortunate, Mr. Brent, that Mrs. Spence happened to find me?"
said Mrs. Holt, as she took his hand. "I know it is a relief to you."

It was not often, indeed, that Trixton Brent was taken off his guard; but
some allowance must be made for him, since he was facing a situation
unparalleled in his previous experience. Virtue had not often been so
triumphant, and never so dramatic as to produce at the critical instant
so emblematic a defender as this matronly lady in dove colour. For a
moment, he stared at her, speechless, and then he gathered himself
together.

"A relief?" he asked.

"It would seem so to me," said Mrs. Holt. "Not that I do not think you
are perfectly capable of taking care of her, as an intimate friend of her
husband. I was merely thinking of the proprieties. And as I am a guest in
this hotel, I expect you both to do me the honour to dine with me before
we start for Quicksands."

After all, Trixton Brent had a sense of humour, although it must not be
expected that he should grasp at once all the elements of a joke on
himself so colossal.

"I, for one," he said, with a slight bow which gave to his words a touch
somewhat elaborate, "will be delighted." And he shot at Honora a glance
compounded of many feelings, which she returned smilingly.

"Is that the waiter?" asked Mrs. Holt.

"That is a waiter," said Trixton Brent, glancing at the motionless
figure. "Shall I call him?"

"If you please," said Mrs. Holt. "Honora, you must tell me what you
like."

"Anything, Mrs. Holt," said Honora.

"If we are to leave a little after nine," said that lady, balancing her
glasses on her nose and glancing at the card, "we have not, I'm afraid,
time for many courses."