Again mystified, he did as he was told.  She remembered his reputation for going to sleep, and wondered whether she had been wise in her second choice.  But it soon became apparent that Mr. Grainger, as he gazed at her from among the cushions, had no intention of dozing, His eyelids reminded her of the shutters of a camera, and she had the feeling of sitting for thousands of instantaneous photographs for his benefit.  She was by turns annoyed, amused, and distrait:  Peter was leaving his hotel; now he was taking the train.  Was he thinking of her?  He had said he was glad she was happy!  She caught herself up with a start after one of these silences to realize that Mr. Grainger was making unwonted and indeed pathetic exertions to entertain her, and it needed no feminine eye to perceive that he was thoroughly uncomfortable.  She had, unconsciously and in thinking of Peter, rather overdone the note of rebuke of his visit.  And Honora was, above all else, an artist.  His air was distinctly apologetic as he rose, perhaps a little mortified, like that of a man who has got into the wrong house.

“I very much fear I’ve intruded, Mrs. Spence,” he stammered, and he was winking now with bewildering rapidity.  “We—­we had such a pleasant drive together that day to Westchester—­I was tempted—­”

“We did have a good time,” she agreed.  “And it has been a pleasure to see you again.”

Thus, in the kindness of her heart, she assisted him to cover his retreat, for it was a strange and somewhat awful experience to see Mr. Cecil Grainger discountenanced.  He glanced again, as he went out, at the chair in which he had been forbidden to sit.

She went to the piano, played over a few bars of Thais, and dropped her hands listlessly.  Cross currents of the strange events of the day flowed through her mind:  Peter’s arrival and its odd heralding, and the discomfort of Mr. Grainger.

Howard came in.  He did not see her under the shaded lamp, and she sat watching him with a curious feeling of detachment as he unfolded his newspaper and sank, with a sigh of content, into the cushioned chair which Mr. Grainger had vacated.  Was it fancy that her husband’s physical attributes had changed since he had attained his new position of dignity?  She could have sworn that he had visibly swollen on the evening when he had announced to her his promotion, and he seemed to have remained swollen.  Not bloated, of course:  he was fatter, and—­if possible pinker.  But there was a growing suggestion in him of humming-and-hawing greatness.  If there—­were leisure in this too-leisurely chronicle for what might be called aftermath, the dinner that Honora had given to some of her Quicksands friends might be described.  Suffice it to recall, with Honora, that Lily Dallam, with a sure instinct, had put the finger of her wit on this new attribute of Howard’s.

“You’ll kill me, Howard!” she had cried.  “He even looks at the soup as though he were examining a security!”