Honora’s house, the first on the right, was exactly like the other five.  If we look at it through her eyes, we shall find this similarity its main drawback.  If we are a little older, however, and more sophisticated, we shall suspect the owner of Stafford Park and his architect of a design to make it appear imposing.  It was (indefinite and much-abused term) Colonial; painted white; and double, with dormer windows of diagonal wood-surrounded panes in the roof.  There was a large pillared porch on its least private side—­namely, the front.  A white-capped maid stood in the open doorway and smiled at Honora as she entered.

Honora walked through the rooms.  There was nothing intricate about the house; it was as simple as two times four, and really too large for her and Howard.  Her presents were installed, the pictures and photograph frames and chairs, even Mr. Isham’s dining-room table and Cousin Eleanor’s piano.  The sight of these, and of the engraving which Aunt Mary had sent on, and which all her childhood had hung over her bed in the little room at home, brought the tears once more to her eyes.  But she forced them back bravely.

These reflections were interrupted by the appearance of the little maid announcing that tea was ready, and bringing her two letters.  One was from Susan Holt, and the other, written in a large, slanting, and angular handwriting, was signed Lily Dallam.  It was dated from New York.

“My dear Honora,” it ran, “I feel that I must call you so, for Sid and Howard, in addition to being partners, are such friends.  I hesitated so long about furnishing your house, my dear, but Howard insisted, and said he wished to surprise you.  I am sending you this line to welcome you, and to tell you that I have arranged with the furniture people to take any or all things back that you do not like, and exchange them.  After all, they will be out of date in a few years, and Howard and Sid will have made so much money by that time, I hope, that I shall be able to leave my apartment, which is dear, and you will be coming to town.”

Honora laid down the sheet, and began to tidy her hair before the glass of the highly polished bureau in her room.  A line in Susan’s letter occurred to her:  “Mother hopes to see you soon.  She asked me to tell you to buy good things which will last you all your life, and says that it pays.”

The tea-table was steaming in the parlour in front of the wood fire in the blue tiled fireplace.  The oak floor reflected its gleam, and that of the electric lights; the shades were drawn; a slight odour of steam heat pervaded the place.  Howard, smoking a cigarette, was reclining on a sofa that evidently was not made for such a purpose, reading the evening newspapers.

“Well, Honora,” he said, as she took her seat behind the tea-table, “you haven’t told me how you like it.  Pretty cosey, eh?  And enough spare room to have people out over Sundays.”