Suddenly the chill of silence pervaded the room.  Lula Chandos, whose back was turned to the door, looked from Mrs. Barclay to Howard, who, with the other men had risen to his feet.

“What’s the matter?” she said in a frightened tone.  And, following the eyes of the others, turned her head slowly towards the doorway.

Mrs. Holt, who filled it, had been literally incapable of speech.  Close behind her stood Honora and Trixton whose face was inscrutable.

“Howard,” said Honora, summoning all the courage that remained in her, “here’s Mrs. Holt.  We dined with her, and she was good enough to come down for the night.  I’m so sorry not to have been here,” she added to her guests, “but we went to Westchester with Mrs. Kame and Mr. Grainger, and the automobile broke down on the way back.”

Mrs. Holt made no attempt to enter, but stared fixedly at the cigarette that Mrs. Chandos still held in her trembling fingers.  Howard crossed the room in the midst of an intense silence.

“Glad to see you, Mrs. Holt,” he said.  “Er—­won’t you come in and—­and sit down?”

“Thank you, Howard” she replied, “I do not wish to interrupt your party.  It is my usual hour for retiring.

“And I think, my dear,” she added, turning to Honora, “that I’ll ask you to excuse me, and show me to my room.”

“Certainly, Mrs. Holt,” said Honora, breathlessly.

“Howard, ring the bell.”

She led the way up the stairs to the guest-chamber with the rose paper and the little balcony.  As she closed the door gusts of laughter reached them from the floor below, and she could plainly distinguish the voices of May Barclay and Trixton Brent.

“I hope you’ll be comfortable, Mrs. Holt,” she said.  “Your maid will be in the little room across the hall and I believe you like breakfast at eight.”

“You mustn’t let me keep you from your guests, Honora.”

“Oh, Mrs. Holt,” she said, on the verge of tears, “I don’t want to go to them.  Really, I don’t.”

“It must be confessed,” said Mrs. Holt, opening her handbag and taking out the copy of the mission report, which had been carefully folded, “that they seem to be able to get along very well without you.  I suppose I am too old to understand this modern way of living.  How well I remember one night—­it was in 1886—­I missed the train to Silverdale, and my telegram miscarried.  Poor Mr. Holt was nearly out of his head.”

She fumbled for her glasses and dropped them.  Honora picked them up, and it was then she perceived that the tears were raining down the good lady’s cheeks.  At the same moment they sprang into Honora’s eyes, and blinded her.  Mrs. Holt looked at her long and earnestly.

“Go down, my dear,” she said gently, “you must not neglect your friends.  They will wonder where you are.  And at what time do you breakfast?”

“At—­at any time you like.”

“I shall be down at eight,” said Mrs. Holt, and she kissed her.