“No,” replied Honora, and she was suddenly filled with shame at the thought that she had never been in the Museum.  “I didn’t know you were so fond of pictures.”

“I am beginning to be a rival of Mr. Dwyer,” he declared.  “I’ve bought four—­although I haven’t built my gallery.  When you come to St. Louis I’ll show them to you—­and let us hope it will be soon.”

For some time after she had heard the street door close behind him Honora remained where she was, staring into the fire, and then she crossed the room to a reading lamp, and turned it up.

Some one spoke in the doorway.

“Mr. Grainger, madam.”

Before she could rouse herself and recover from her astonishment, the gentleman himself appeared, blinking as though the vision of her were too bright to be steadily gazed at.  If the city had been searched, it is doubtful whether a more striking contrast to the man who had just left could have been found than Cecil Grainger in the braided, grey cutaway that clung to the semblance of a waist he still possessed.  In him Hyde Park and Fifth Avenue, so to speak, shook hands across the sea:  put him in either, and he would have appeared indigenous.

“Hope you’ll forgive my comin’ ’round on such slight acquaintance, Mrs. Spence,” said he.  “Couldn’t resist the opportunity to pay my respects.  Shorter told me where you were.”

“That was very good of Mr. Shorter,” said Honora, whose surprise had given place to a very natural resentment, since she had not the honour of knowing Mrs. Grainger.

“Oh,” said Mr. Grainger, “Shorter’s a good sort.  Said he’d been here himself to see how you were fixed, and hadn’t found you in.  Uncommonly well fixed, I should say,” he added, glancing around the room with undisguised approval.  “Why the deuce did she furnish it, since she’s gone to Paris to live with Rindge?”

“I suppose you mean Mrs. Rindge,” said Honora.  “She didn’t furnish it.”

Mr. Grainger winked at her rapidly, like a man suddenly brought face to face with a mystery.

“Oh!” he replied, as though he had solved it.  The solution came a few moments later.  “It’s ripping!” he said.  “Farwell couldn’t have done it any better.”

Honora laughed, and momentarily forgot her resentment.

“Will you have tea?” she asked.  “Oh, don’t sit down there!”

“Why not?” he asked, jumping.  It was the chair that had held Peter, and Mr. Grainger examined the seat as though he suspected a bent pin.

“Because,” said Honora, “because it isn’t comfortable.  Pull up that other one.”