Honora, closing the door, stood motionless in the hall, and presently the footsteps and the laughter and the sound of carriage wheels on the gravel died away.

CHAPTER XI

CONTAINING SOME REVELATIONS

Honora, as she descended, caught a glimpse of the parlour maid picking up the scattered cards on the drawing-room floor.  There were voices on the porch, where Howard was saying good-by to Mrs. Chandos and Trixton Brent.  She joined them.

“Oh, my dear!” cried Mrs. Chandos, interrupting Honora’s apologies, “I’m sure I shan’t sleep a wink—­she gave me such a fright.  You might have sent Trixy ahead to prepare us.  When I first caught sight of her, I thought it was my own dear mother who had come all the way from Cleveland, and the cigarette burned my fingers.  But I must say I think it was awfully clever of you to get hold of her and save Trixy’s reputation.  Good night, dear.”

And she got into her carriage.

“Give my love to Mrs. Holt,” said Brent, as he took Honora’s hand, “and tell her I feel hurt that she neglected to say good night to me.  I thought I had made an impression.  Tell her I’ll send her a cheque for her rescue work.  She inspires me with confidence.”

Howard laughed.

“I’ll see you to-morrow, Brent,” he called out as they drove away.  Though always assertive, it seemed to Honora that her husband had an increased air of importance as he turned to her now with his hands in his pockets.  He looked at her for a moment, and laughed again.  He, too, had apparently seen the incident only in a humorous light.  “Well, Honora,” he remarked, “you have a sort of a P. T. Barnum way of doing things once in a while—­haven’t you?  Is the old lady really tucked away for the night, or is she coming down to read us a sermon?  And how the deuce did you happen to pick her up?”

She had come downstairs with confession on her lips, and in the agitation of her mind had scarcely heeded Brent’s words or Mrs. Chandos’.  She had come down prepared for any attitude but the one in which she found him; for anger, reproaches, arraignments.  Nay, she was surprised to find now that she had actually hoped for these.  She deserved to be scolded:  it was her right.  If he had been all of a man, he would have called her to account.  There must be—­there was something lacking in his character.  And it came to her suddenly, with all the shock of a great contrast, with what different eyes she had looked upon him five years before at Silverdale.

He went into the house and started to enter the drawing-room, still in disorder and reeking with smoke.

“No, not in there!” she cried sharply.

He turned to her puzzled.  Her breath was coming and going quickly.  She crossed the hall and turned on the light in the little parlour there, and he followed her.

“Don’t you feel well?” he asked.