“I really can’t stay, Lily.  I—­I don’t feel up to it,” said Honora, desperately.

“And you can’t know how I counted on you!  You look perfectly fresh, my dear.”

Honora felt an overwhelming desire to hide herself, to be alone.  In spite of the cries of protest that followed her and drew—­she thought—­an unnecessary and disagreeable attention to her departure, she threaded her way among groups of people who stared after her.  Her colour was high, her heart beating painfully; a vague sense of rebellion and shame within her for which she did not try to account.  Rather than run the gantlet of the crowded veranda she stepped out on the lawn, and there encountered Trixton Brent.  He had, in an incredibly brief time, changed from his polo clothes to flannels and a straw hat.  He looked at her and whistled, and barred her passage.

“Hello!” he cried.  “Hoity-toity!  Where are we going in such a hurry?”

“Home,” answered Honora, a little breathlessly, and added for his deception, “the game’s over, isn’t it?  I’m glad you won.”

Mr. Brent, however, continued to gaze at her penetratingly, and she avoided his eyes.

“But why are you rushing off like a flushed partridge?—­no reference to your complexion.  Has there been a row?”

“Oh, no—­I was just—­tired.  Please let me go.”

“Being your good angel—­or physician, as you choose—­I have a prescription for that kind of weariness,” he said smilingly.  “I—­anticipated such an attack.  That’s why I got into my clothes in such record time.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” faltered Honora.  “You are always imagining all sorts of things about me that aren’t true.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Brent, “I have promised faithfully to do a favor for certain friends of mine who have been clamouring to be presented to you.”

“I can’t—­to-day—­Mr. Brent,” she cried.  “I really don’t feel like-meeting people.  I told Lily Dallam I was going home.”

The group, however, which had been the object of that lady’s remarks was already moving towards them—­with the exception of Mrs. Shorter and Mr. Farwell, who had left it.  They greeted Mr. Brent with great cordiality.

“Mrs. Kame,” he said, “let me introduce Mrs. Spence.  And Mrs. Spence, Mr. Grainger, Mr. Wing, and Mr. Cuthbert.  Mrs. Spence was just going home.”

“Home!” echoed Mrs. Kame, “I thought Quicksands people never went home after a victory.”

“I’ve scarcely been here long enough,” replied Honora, “to have acquired all of the Quicksands habits.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Kame, and looked at Honora again.  “Wasn’t that Mrs. Dallam you were with?  I used to know her, years ago, but she doesn’t speak to me any more.”

“Perhaps she thinks you’ve forgotten her,” said Honora.

“It would be impossible to forget Mrs. Dallam,” declared Mrs. Kame.

“So I should have thought,” said Honora.