One Monday morning a storm was raging over Newport.  Seized by a sudden whim, she rang her bell, breakfasted at an unusual hour, and nine o’clock found her, with her skirts flying, on the road above the cliffs that leads to the Fort.  The wind had increased to a gale, and as she stood on the rocks the harbour below her was full of tossing white yachts straining at their anchors.  Serene in the midst of all this hubbub lay a great grey battleship.

Presently, however, her thoughts were distracted by the sight of something moving rapidly across her line of vision.  A sloop yacht, with a ridiculously shortened sail, was coming in from the Narrows, scudding before the wind like a frightened bird.  She watched its approach in a sort of fascination, for of late she had been upon the water enough to realize that the feat of which she was witness was not without its difficulties.  As the sloop drew nearer she made out a bare-headed figure bent tensely at the wheel, and four others clinging to the yellow deck.  In a flash the boat had rounded to, the mainsail fell, and a veil of spray hid the actors of her drama.  When it cleared the yacht was tugging like a wild thing at its anchor.

That night was Mrs. Grenfell’s ball, and many times in later years has the scene come back to Honora.  It was not a large ball, by no means on the scale of Mr. Chamberlin’s, for instance.  The great room reminded one of the gallery of a royal French chateau, with its dished ceiling, in the oval of which the colours of a pastoral fresco glowed in the ruby lights of the heavy chandeliers; its grey panelling, hidden here and there by tapestries, and its series of deep, arched windows that gave glimpses of a lantern-hung terrace.  Out there, beyond a marble balustrade, the lights of fishing schooners tossed on a blue-black ocean.  The same ocean on which she had looked that morning, and which she heard now, in the intervals of talk and laughter, crashing against the cliffs,—­although the wind had gone down.  Like a woman stirred to the depths of her being, its bosom was heaving still at the memory of the passion of the morning.

This night after the storm was capriciously mild, the velvet gown of heaven sewn with stars.  The music had ceased, and supper was being served at little tables on the terrace.  The conversation was desultory.

“Who is that with Reggie Farwell?” Ethel Wing asked.

“It’s the Farrenden girl,” replied Mr. Cuthbert, whose business it was to know everybody.  “Chicago wheat.  She looks like Ceres, doesn’t she?  Quite becoming to Reggie’s dark beauty.  She was sixteen, they tell me, when the old gentleman emerged from the pit, and they packed her off to a convent by the next steamer.  Reggie may have the blissful experience of living in one of his own houses if he marries her.”

The fourth at the table was Ned Carrington, who had been first secretary at an Embassy, and he had many stories to tell of ambassadors who spoke commercial American and asked royalties after their wives.  Some one had said about him that he was the only edition of the Almanach de Gotha that included the United States.  He somewhat resembled a golden seal emerging from a cold bath, and from time to time screwed an eyeglass into his eye and made a careful survey of Mrs. Grenfell’s guests.