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Honora's interest in the Institution was so lively, and she asked so many questions and praised so highly the work with which the indiscreet young women were occupied that Mrs. Holt patted her hand as they drove homeward.

“My dear,” she said, “I begin to wish I'd adopted you myself. Perhaps, later on, we can find a husband for you, and you will marry and settle down near us here at Silverdale, and then you can help me with the work.”

“Oh, Mrs. Holt,” she replied, “I should so like to help you, I mean. And it would be wonderful to live in such a place. And as for marriage, it seems such a long way off that somehow I never think of it.”

“Naturally,” ejaculated Mrs. Holt, with approval, “a young girl of your age should not. But, my dear, I am afraid you are destined to have many admirers. If you had not been so well brought up, and were not naturally so sensible, I should fear for you.”

“Oh, Mrs. Holt!” exclaimed Honora, deprecatingly, and blushing very prettily.

“Whatever else I am,” said Mrs. Holt, vigorously, “I am not a flatterer. I am telling you something for your own good—which you probably know already.”

Honora was discreetly silent. She thought of the proud and unsusceptible George Hanbury, whom she had cast down from the tower of his sophomore dignity with such apparent ease; and of certain gentlemen at home, young and middle-aged, who had behaved foolishly during the Christmas holidays.

At lunch both the Roberts and the Joshuas were away.

Afterwards, they romped with the children—she and Susan. They were shy at first, especially the third Joshua, but Honora captivated him by playing two sets of tennis in the broiling sun, at the end of which exercise he regarded her with a new-born admiration in his eyes. He was thirteen.

“I didn't think you were that kind at all,” he said.

“What kind did you think I was?” asked Honora, passing her arm around his shoulder as they walked towards the house.

The boy grew scarlet.

“Oh, I didn't think you—you could play tennis,” he stammered.

Honora stopped, and seized his chin and tilted his face upward.

“Now, Joshua,” she said, “look at me and say that over again.”

“Well,” he replied desperately, “I thought you wouldn't want to get all mussed up and hot.”

“That's better,” said Honora. “You thought I was vain, didn't you?”

“But I don't think so any more,” he avowed passionately. “I think you're a trump. And we'll play again to-morrow, won't we?”

“We'll play any day you like,” she declared.

It is unfair to suppose that the arrival of a real vicomte and of a young, good-looking, and successful member of the New York Stock Exchange were responsible for Honora's appearance, an hour later, in the embroidered linen gown which Cousin Eleanor had given her that spring. Tea was already in progress on the porch, and if a hush in the conversation and the scraping of chairs is any sign of a sensation, this happened when our heroine appeared in the doorway. And Mrs. Holt, in the act of lifting the hot-water kettle; put it down again. Whether or not there was approval in the lady's delft-blue eye, Honora could not have said. The Vicomte, with the graceful facility of his race, had differentiated himself from the group and stood before her. As soon as the words of introduction were pronounced, he made a bow that was a tribute in itself, exaggerated in its respect.

“It is a pleasure, Mademoiselle,” he murmured, but his eyes were more eloquent.

A description of him in his own language leaped into Honora's mind, so much did he appear to have walked out of one of the many yellow-backed novels she had read. He was not tall, but beautifully made, and his coat was quite absurdly cut in at the waist; his mustache was en-croc, and its points resembled those of the Spanish bayonets in the conservatory: he might have been three and thirty, and he was what the novels described as 'un peu fane' which means that he had seen the world: his eyes were extraordinarily bright, black, and impenetrable.

A greater contrast to the Vicomte than Mr. Howard Spence would have been difficult to find. He was Honora's first glimpse of Finance, of the powers that travelled in private cars and despatched ships across the ocean. And in our modern mythology, he might have stood for the god of Prosperity. Prosperity is pink, and so was Mr. Spence, in two places—his smooth-shaven cheeks and his shirt. His flesh had a certain firmness, but he was not stout; he was merely well fed, as Prosperity should be. His features were comparatively regular, his mustache a light brown, his eyes hazel. The fact that he came from that mysterious metropolis, the heart of which is Wall Street, not only excused but legitimized the pink shirt and the neatly knotted green tie, the pepper-and-salt check suit that was loose and at the same time well-fitting, and the jewelled ring on his plump little finger. On the whole, Mr. Spence was not only prepossessing, but he contrived to give Honora, as she shook his hand, the impression of being brought a step nearer to the national source of power. Unlike the Vicomte, he did not appear to have been instantly and mortally wounded upon her arrival on the scene, but his greeting was flattering, and he remained by her side instead of returning to that of Mrs. Robert.

“When did you come up?” he asked.

“Only yesterday,” answered Honora.

“New York,” said Mr. Spence, producing a gold cigarette case on which his monogram was largely and somewhat elaborately engraved, “New York is played out this time of year—isn't it? I dropped in at Sherry's last night for dinner, and there weren't thirty people there.”

Honora had heard of Sherry's as a restaurant where one dined fabulously, and she tried to imagine the cosmopolitan and blissful existence which permitted “dropping in at” such a place. Moreover, Mr. Spence was plainly under the impression that she too “came up” from New York, and it was impossible not to be a little pleased.

“It must be a relief to get into the country,” she ventured.

Mr. Spence glanced around him expressively, and then looked at her with a slight smile. The action and the smile—to which she could not refrain from responding—seemed to establish a tacit understanding between them. It was natural that he should look upon Silverdale as a slow place, and there was something delicious in his taking, for granted that she shared this opinion. She wondered a little wickedly what he would say when he knew the truth about her, and this was the birth of a resolution that his interest should not flag.

“Oh, I can stand the country when it is properly inhabited,” he said, and their eyes met in laughter.

“How many inhabitants do you require?” she asked.

“Well,” he said brazenly, “the right kind of inhabitant is worth a thousand of the wrong kind. It is a good rule in business, when you come across a gilt-edged security, to make a specialty of it.”

Honora found the compliment somewhat singular. But she was prepared to forgive New York a few sins in the matter of commercial slang: New York, which evidently dressed as it liked, and talked as it liked. But not knowing any more of a gilt-edged security than that it was something to Mr. Spence's taste, a retort was out of the question. Then, as though she were doomed that day to complicity, her eyes chanced to encounter an appealing glance from the Vicomte, who was searching with the courage of despair for an English word, which his hostess awaited in stoical silence. He was trying to give his impressions of Silverdale, in comparison to country places abroad, while Mrs. Robert regarded him enigmatically, and Susan sympathetically. Honora had an almost irresistible desire to laugh.

“Ah, Madame,” he cried, still looking at Honora, “will you have the kindness to permit me to walk about ever so little?”

“Certainly, Vicomte, and I will go with you. Get my parasol, Susan. Perhaps you would like to come, too, Howard,” she added to Mr. Spence; “it has been so long since you were here, and we have made many changes.”

“And you, Mademoiselle,” said the Vicomte to Honora, “you will come—yes? You are interested in landscape?”

“I love the country,” said Honora.

“It is a pleasure to have a guest who is so appreciative,” said Mrs. Holt. “Miss Leffingwell was up at seven this morning, and in the garden with my husband.”

“At seven!” exclaimed the Vicomte; “you American young ladies are wonderful. For example—” and he was about to approach her to enlarge on this congenial theme when Susan arrived with the parasol, which Mrs. Holt put in his hands.

“We'll begin, I think, with the view from the summer house,” she said. “And I will show you how our famous American landscape architect, Mr. Olmstead, has treated the slope.”

There was something humorous, and a little pathetic in the contrasted figures of the Vicomte and their hostess crossing the lawn in front of them. Mr. Spence paused a moment to light his cigarette, and he seemed to derive infinite pleasure from this juxtaposition.

“Got left—didn't he?” he said.

To this observation there was, obviously, no answer.

“I'm not very strong on foreigners,” he declared. “An American is good enough for me. And there's something about that fellow which would make me a little slow in trusting him with a woman I cared for.”

“If you are beginning to worry over Mrs. Holt,” said Honora, “we'd better walk a little faster.”

Mr. Spence's delight at this sally was so unrestrained as to cause the couple ahead to turn. The Vicomte's expression was reproachful.

“Where's Susan?” asked Mrs. Holt.

“I think she must have gone in the house,” Honora answered.

“You two seem to be having a very good time.”

“Oh, we're hitting it off fairly well,” said Mr. Spence, no doubt for the benefit of the Vicomte. And he added in a confidential tone, “Aren't we?”

“Not on the subject of the Vicomte,” she replied promptly. “I like him. I like French people.”

“What!” he exclaimed, halting in his steps, “you don't take that man seriously?”

“I haven't known him long enough to take him seriously,” said Honora.

“There's a blindness about women,” he declared, “that's incomprehensible. They'll invest in almost any old thing if the certificates are beautifully engraved. If you were a man, you wouldn't trust that Frenchman to give you change for five dollars.”

“French people,” proclaimed Honora, “have a light touch of which we Americans are incapable. We do not know how to relax.”

“A light touch!” cried Mr. Spence, delightedly, “that about describes the Vicomte.”

“I'm sure you do him an injustice,” said Honora.

“We'll see,” said Mr. Spence. “Mrs. Holt is always picking up queer people like that. She's noted for it.” He turned to her. “How did you happen to come here?”

“I came with Susan,” she replied, amusedly, “from boarding-school at Sutcliffe.”

“From boarding-school!”

She rather enjoyed his surprise.

“You don't mean to say you are Susan's age?”

“How old did you think I was?” she asked.

“Older than Susan,” he said surveying her.

“No, I'm a mere child, I'm nineteen.”

“But I thought—” he began, and paused and lighted another cigarette.

Her eyes lighted mischievously.

“You thought that I had been out several years, and that I'd seen a good deal of the world, and that I lived in New York, and that it was strange you didn't know me. But New York is such an enormous place I suppose one can't know everybody there.”

“And—where do you come from, if I may ask?” he said.

“St. Louis. I was brought to this country before I was two years old, from France. Mrs. Holt brought me. And I have never been out of St. Louis since, except to go to Sutcliffe. There you have my history. Mrs. Holt would probably have told it to you, if I hadn't.”

“And Mrs. Holt brought you to this country?”

Honora explained, not without a certain enjoyment.

“And how do you happen to be here?” she demanded. “Are you a member of—of the menagerie?”

He had the habit of throwing back his head when he laughed. This, of course, was a thing to laugh over, and now he deemed it audacity. Five minutes before he might have given it another name there is no use in saying that the recital of Honora's biography had not made a difference with Mr. Howard Pence, and that he was not a little mortified at his mistake. What he had supposed her to be must remain a matter of conjecture. He was, however, by no means aware how thoroughly this unknown and inexperienced young woman had read his thoughts in her regard. And if the truth be told, he was on the whole relieved that she was nobody. He was just an ordinary man, provided with no sixth sense or premonitory small voice to warn him that masculine creatures are often in real danger at the moment when they feel most secure.

It is certain that his manner changed, and during the rest of the walk she listened demurely when he talked about Wall Street, with casual references to the powers that be. It was evident that Mr. Howard Spence was one who had his fingers on the pulse of affairs. Ambition leaped in him.

They reached the house in advance of Mrs. Holt and the Vicomte, and Honora went to her room.

At dinner, save for a little matter of a casual remark when Mr. Holt had assumed the curved attitude in which he asked grace, Mr. Spence had a veritable triumph. Self-confidence was a quality which Honora admired. He was undaunted by Mrs. Holt, and advised Mrs. Robert, if she had any pin-money, to buy New York Central; and he predicted an era of prosperity which would be unexampled in the annals of the country. Among other powers, he quoted the father of Honora's schoolmate, Mr. James Wing, as authority for this prophecy. He sat next to Susan, who maintained her usual maidenly silence, but Honora, from time to time, and as though by accident, caught his eye. Even Mr. Holt, when not munching his dried bread, was tempted to make some inquiries about the market.

“So far as I am concerned,” Mrs. Holt announced suddenly, “nothing can convince me that it is not gambling.”

“My dear Elvira!” protested Mr. Holt.

“I can't help it,” said that lady, stoutly; “I'm old-fashioned, I suppose. But it seems to me like legalized gambling.”

Mr. Spence took this somewhat severe arraignment of his career in admirable good nature. And if these be such a thing as an implied wink, Honora received one as he proceeded to explain what he was pleased to call the bona-fide nature of the transactions of Dallam and Spence.

A discussion ensued in which, to her surprise, even the ordinarily taciturn Joshua took a part, and maintained that the buying and selling of blooded stock was equally gambling. To this his father laughingly agreed. The Vicomte, who sat on Mrs. Holt's right, and who apparently was determined not to suffer a total eclipse without a struggle, gallantly and unexpectedly came to his hostess' rescue, though she treated him as a doubtful ally. This was because he declared with engaging frankness that in France the young men of his monde had a jeunesse: he, who spoke to them, had gambled; everybody gambled in France, where it was regarded as an innocent amusement. He had friends on the Bourse, and he could see no difference in principle between betting on the red at Monte Carlo and the rise and fall of the shares of la Compagnie des Metaux, for example. After completing his argument, he glanced triumphantly about the table, until his restless black eyes encountered Honora's, seemingly seeking a verdict. She smiled impartially.

The subject of finance lasted through the dinner, and the Vicomte proclaimed himself amazed with the evidences of wealth which confronted him on every side in this marvellous country. And once, when he was at a loss for a word, Honora astonished and enchanted him by supplying it.

“Ah, Mademoiselle,” he exclaimed, “I was sure when I first beheld you that you spoke my language! And with such an accent!”

“I have studied it all my life, Vicomte,” she said, modestly, “and I had the honour to be born in your country. I have always wished to see it again.”

Monsieur de Toqueville ventured the fervent hope that her wish might soon be gratified, but not before he returned to France. He expressed himself in French, and in a few moments she found herself deep in a discussion with him in that tongue. While she talked, her veins seemed filled with fire; and she was dimly and automatically aware of the disturbance about her, as though she were creating a magnetic storm that interfered with all other communication. Mr. Holt's nightly bezique, which he played with Susan, did not seem to be going as well as usual, and elsewhere conversation was a palpable pretence. Mr. Spence, who was attempting to entertain the two daughters-in-law, was clearly distrait—if his glances meant anything. Robert and Joshua had not appeared, and Mrs. Holt, at the far end of the room under the lamp, regarded Honora from time to time over the edge of the evening newspaper.

In his capacity as a student of American manners, an unsuspected if scattered knowledge on Honora's part of that portion of French literature included between Theophile Gautier and Gyp at once dumfounded and delighted the Vicomte de Toqueville. And he was curious to know whether, amongst American young ladies, Miss Leffingwell was the exception or the rule. Those eyes of his, which had paid to his hostess a tender respect, snapped when they spoke to our heroine, and presently he boldly abandoned literature to declare that the fates alone had sent her to Silverdale at the time of his visit.

It was at this interesting juncture that Mrs. Holt rattled her newspaper a little louder than usual, arose majestically, and addressed Mrs. Joshua.

“Annie, perhaps you will play for us,” she said, as she crossed the room, and added to Honora: “I had no idea you spoke French so well, my dear. What have you and Monsieur de Toqueville been talking about?”

It was the Vicomte who, springing to his feet, replied nimbly: “Mademoiselle has been teaching me much of the customs of your country.”

“And what,” inquired Mrs. Holt, “have you been teaching Mademoiselle?”

The Vicomte laughed and shrugged his shoulders expressively.

“Ah, Madame, I wish I were qualified to be her teacher. The education of American young ladies is truly extraordinary.”

“I was about to tell Monsieur de Toqueville,” put in Honora, wickedly, “that he must see your Institution as soon as possible, and the work your girls are doing.”

“Madame,” said the Vicomte, after a scarcely perceptible pause, “I await my opportunity and your kindness.”

“I will take you to-morrow,” said Mrs. Holt.

At this instant a sound closely resembling a sneeze caused them to turn. Mr. Spence, with his handkerchief to his mouth, had his back turned to them, and was studiously regarding the bookcases.

After Honora had gone upstairs for the night she opened her door in response to a knock, to find Mrs. Holt on the threshold.

“My dear,” said that lady, “I feel that I must say a word to you. I suppose you realize that you are attractive to men.”

“Oh, Mrs. Holt.”

“You're no fool, my dear, and it goes without saying that you-do realize it—in the most innocent way, of course. But you have had no experience in life. Mind you, I don't say that the Vicomte de Toqueville isn't very much of a gentleman, but the French ideas about the relations of young men and young women are quite different and, I regret to say, less innocent than ours. I have no reason to believe that the Vicomte has come to this country to—to mend his fortunes. I know nothing about his property. But my sense of responsibility towards you has led me to tell him that you have no dot, for you somehow manage to give the impression of a young woman of fortune. Not purposely, my dear—I did not mean that.” Mrs. Holt tapped gently Honora's flaming cheek. “I merely felt it my duty to drop you a word of warning against Monsieur de Toqueville—because he is a Frenchman.”

“But, Mrs. Holt, I had no idea of—of falling in love with him,” protested Honora, as soon as she could get her breath. He seemed so kind—and so interested in everything.

“I dare say,” said Mrs. Holt, dryly. “And I have always been led to believe that that is the most dangerous sort. I am sure, Honora, after what I have said, you will give him no encouragement.”

“Oh, Mrs. Holt,” cried Honora again, “I shouldn't think of such a thing!”

“I am sure of it, Honora, now that you are forewarned. And your suggestion to take him to the Institution was not a bad one. I meant to do so anyway, and I think it will be good for him. Good night, my dear.”

After the good lady bad gone, Honora stood for some moments motionless. Then she turned out the light.