“He’s not exactly a Quicksands person.  I scarcely know how to describe him.  He’s very rich, and goes abroad a great deal, and plays polo.  That’s the reason he has a little place at Quicksands.  He’s been awfully kind both to Howard and me,” she added with inspiration.

“And Mrs. Kame?” said Mrs. Holt.

“She’s a widow, and has a place at Banbury.

“I never heard of her,” said Mrs. Holt, and Honora thanked her stars.

“And Howard approves of these mixed lunches, my dear?  When I was young, husbands and wives usually went to parties together.”

A panicky thought came to Honora, that Mrs. Holt might suddenly inquire as to the whereabouts of Mr. Brent’s wife.

“Oh, Howard doesn’t mind,” she said hastily.  “I suppose times have changed, Mrs. Holt.  And after lunch we all went out in Mr. Brent’s automobile to the Faunces’ in Westchester—­”

“The Paul Jones Faunces?” Mrs. Holt interrupted.

“What a nice woman that young Mrs. Faunce is!  She was Kitty Esterbrook, you know.  Both of them very old families.”

“It was only,” continued Honora, in desperation, “it was only to leave Mr. Grainger and Mrs. Kame there to spend the night.  They all said we had plenty of time to go and get back to Quicksands by six o’clock.  But coming back the automobile broke down—­”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Holt, “it serves any one right for trusting to them.  I think they are an invention of the devil.”

“And we’ve only just got back to New York this minute.”

“Who?” inquired Mrs. Holt.

“Mr. Brent and I,” said Honora, with downcast eyes.

“Good gracious!” exclaimed the elder lady.

“I couldn’t think of anything else to do but come straight here to you,” said Honora, gazing at her friend.  “And oh, I’m so glad to find you.  There’s not another train to Quicksands till after nine.”

“You did quite right, my dear, under the circumstances.  I don’t say you haven’t been foolish, but it’s Howard’s fault quite as much as yours.  He has no business to let you do such things.”

“And what makes it worse,” said Honora, “is that the wires are down to Quicksands, and I can’t telephone Howard, and we have people to dinner, and they don’t know I went to Westchester, and there’s no use telegraphing:  it wouldn’t be delivered till midnight or morning.”

“There, there, my dear, don’t worry.  I know how anxious you feel on your husband’s account—­”

“Oh—­Mrs. Holt, I was going to ask you a great, great favour.  Wouldn’t you go down to Quicksands with me and spend the night—­and pay us a little visit?  You know we would so love to have you!”

“Of course I’ll go down with you, my dear,” said Mrs. Holt.  “I’m surprised that you should think for an instant that I wouldn’t.  It’s my obvious duty.  Martha!” she called, “Martha!”

The door of the bedroom opened, and Mrs. Holt’s elderly maid appeared.  The same maid, by the way, who had closed the shutters that memorable stormy night at Silverdale.  She had, it seemed, a trick of appearing at crises.