Honora’s interest in her new surroundings was as great, and the sight of those towering ridges against the soft blue of the autumn skies inspired her.  It was Indian summer here, the tang of wood smoke was in the air; in the valleys—­as they drove—­the haze was shot with the dust of gold, and through the gaps they looked across vast, unexplored valleys to other distant, blue-stained ridges that rose between them and the sunset.  Honora took an infinite delight in the ramshackle cabins beside the red-clay roads, in the historic atmosphere of the ancient houses and porticoes of the Warm Springs, where the fathers of the Republic had come to take the waters.  And one day, when a north wind had scattered the smoke and swept the sky, Howard followed her up the paths to the ridge’s crest, where she stood like a Victory, her garments blowing, gazing off over the mighty billows to the westward.  Howard had never seen a Victory, but his vision of domesticity was untroubled.

Although it was late in the season, the old-fashioned, rambling hotel was well filled, and people interested Honora as well as scenery—­a proof of her human qualities.  She chided Howard because he, too, was not more socially inclined.

“How can you expect me to be—­now?” he demanded.

She told him he was a goose, although secretly admitting the justice of his defence.  He knew four or five men in the hotel, with whom he talked stocks while waiting for Honora to complete her toilets; and he gathered from two of these, who were married, that patience was a necessary qualification in a husband.  One evening they introduced their wives.  Later, Howard revealed their identity—­or rather that of the husbands.

“Bowker is one of the big men in the Faith Insurance Company, and Tyler is president of the Gotham Trust.”  He paused to light a cigarette, and smiled at her significantly.  “If you can dolly the ladies along once in a while, Honora, it won’t do any harm,” he added.  “You have a way with you, you know,—­when you want to.”

Honora grew scarlet.

“Howard!” she exclaimed.

He looked somewhat shamefaced.

“Well,” he said, “I was only joking.  Don’t take it seriously.  But it doesn’t do any harm to be polite.”

“I am always polite,” she answered a little coldly.

Honeymoons, after all, are matters of conjecture, and what proportion of them contain disenchantments will never be known.  Honora lay awake for a long time that night, and the poignant and ever recurring remembrance of her husband’s remark sent the blood to her face like a flame.  Would Peter, or George Hanbury, or any of the intimate friends of her childhood have said such a thing?