Just where and how this higher and better life was to be found Honora did not know; but the belief of her childhood—­that it existed somewhere—­was still intact.  Her powers of analysis, we see, are only just budding, and she did not and could not define the ideal existence which she so unflaggingly sought.  Of two of its attributes only she was sure—­that it was to be free from restraint and from odious comparisons.  Honora’s development, it may be remarked, proceeds by the action of irritants, and of late her protest against Quicksands and what it represented had driven her to other books besides the treatise on bridge.  The library she had collected at Rivington she had brought with her, and was adding to it from time to time.  Its volumes are neither sufficiently extensive or profound to enumerate.

Those who are more or less skilled in psychology may attempt to establish a sequence between the events and reflections just related and the fact that, one morning a fortnight later, Honora found herself driving northward on Fifth Avenue in a hansom cab.  She was in a pleasurable state of adventurous excitement, comparable to that Columbus must have felt when the shores of the Old World had disappeared below the horizon.  During the fortnight we have skipped Honora had been to town several times, and had driven and walked through certain streets:  inspiration, courage, and decision had all arrived at once this morning, when at the ferry she had given the cabman this particular address on Fifth Avenue.

The cab, with the jerking and thumping peculiar to hansoms, made a circle and drew up at the curb.  But even then a moment of irresolution intervened, and she sat staring through the little side window at the sign, T. Gerald Shorter, Real Estate, in neat gold letters over the basement floor of the building.

“Here y’are, Miss,” said the cabman through the hole in the roof.

Honora descended, and was almost at the flight of steps leading down to the office door when a familiar figure appeared coming out of it.  It was that of Mr. Toots Cuthbert, arrayed in a faultless morning suit, his tie delicately suggestive of falling leaves; and there dangled over his arm the slenderest of walking sticks.

“Mrs. Spence!” he lisped, with every appearance of joy.

“Mr. Cuthbert!” she cried.

“Going in to see Jerry?” he inquired after he had put on his hat, nodding up at the sign.

“I—­that is, yes, I had thought of it,” she answered.

“Town house?” said Mr. Cuthbert, with a knowing smile.

“I did have an idea of looking at houses,” she confessed, somewhat taken aback.

“I’m your man,” announced Mr. Cuthbert.

“You!” exclaimed Honora, with an air of considering the lilies of the field.  But he did not seem to take offence.

“That’s my business,” he proclaimed,—­“when in town.  Jerry gives me a commission.  Come in and see him, while I get a list and some keys.  By the way, you wouldn’t object to telling him you were a friend of mine, would you?”