Madame Dumond was enchanted.  She had them both,—­she had landed with them only last week.  She tried them on Honora, and stood back with her hands clasped in an ecstasy she did not attempt to hide.  What a satisfaction to sell things to Mrs. Spence!  Some ladies she could mention would look like frights in them, but Madame Spence had ‘de la race’.  She could wear anything that was chic.  The hat and veil, said Madame, with a simper, were sixty dollars.

“Sixty dollars!” exclaimed Honora.

“Ah, madame, what would you?” Novelties were novelties, the United States Custom authorities robbers.

Having attended to these important details, Honora drove to the restaurant in her hansom cab, the blood coursing pleasantly in her veins.  The autumn air sparkled, and New York was showing signs of animation.  She glanced furtively into the little mirror at the side.  Her veil was grey, and with the hat gave her somewhat the air of a religieuse, an aspect heightened by the perfect oval of her face; and something akin to a religious thrill ran through her.

The automobile, with its brass and varnish shining in the sunlight, was waiting a little way up the street, and the first person Honora met in the vestibule of Delmonico’s was Lula Chandos.  She was, as usual, elaborately dressed, and gave one the impression of being lost, so anxiously was she scanning the face of every new arrival.

“Oh, my dear,” she cried, staring hard at the hat and the veil, “have you seen Clara Trowbridge anywhere?”

A certain pity possessed Honora as she shook her head.

“She was in town this morning,” continued Mrs. Chandos, “and I was sure she was coming here to lunch.  Trixy just drove up a moment ago in his new car.  Did you see it?”

Honora’s pity turned into a definite contempt.

“I saw an automobile as I came in,” she said, but the brevity of her reply seemed to have no effect upon Mrs. Chandos.

“There he is now, at the entrance to the cafe,” she exclaimed.

There, indeed, was Trixton Brent, staring at them from the end of the hall, and making no attempt to approach them.

“I think I’ll go into the dressing-room and leave my coat,” said Honora, outwardly calm but inwardly desperate.  Fortunately, Lula made no attempt to follow her.

“You’re a dream in that veil, my dear,” Mrs. Chandos called after her.  “Don’t forget that we’re all dining with you to-night in Quicksands.”

Once in the dressing-room, Honora felt like locking the doors and jumping out of the window.  She gave her coat to the maid, rearranged her hair without any apparent reason, and was leisurely putting on her hat again, and wondering what she would do next, when Mrs. Kame appeared.

“Trixy asked me to get you,” she explained.  “Mr. Grainger and I are going to lunch with you.”

“How nice!” said Honora, with such a distinct emphasis of relief that Mrs. Kame looked at her queerly.