“And her husband?” asked Honora.

“Eustace?  Did you ever see him?  That accounts for your question.  He only left France long enough to come over here and make love to her, and he swears he’ll never leave it again.  If she divorces him, he’ll have to have alimony.”

At last Honora was able to gain her own room, but even seclusion, though preferable to the companionship of her guests, was almost intolerable.  The tragedy of Mrs. Rindge had served—­if such a thing could be—­to enhance her own; a sudden spectacle of a woman in a more advanced stage of desperation.  Would she, Honora, ever become like that?  Up to the present she felt that suffering had refined her, and a great love had burned away all that was false.  But now—­now that her god had turned to clay, what would happen?  Desperation seemed possible, notwithstanding the awfulness of the example.  No, she would never come to that!  And she repeated it over and over to herself as she dressed, as though to strengthen her will.

During her conversation with Mrs. Kame she had more than once suspected, in spite of her efforts, that the lady had read her state of mind.  For Mrs. Kame’s omissions were eloquent to the discerning:  Chiltern’s relatives had been mentioned with a casualness intended to imply that no breach existed, and the fiction that Honora could at any moment take up her former life delicately sustained.  Mrs. Kame had adaptably chosen the attitude, after a glance around her, that Honora preferred Highlawns to the world:  a choice of which she let it be known that she approved, while deploring that a frivolous character put such a life out of the question for herself.  She made her point without over-emphasis.  On the other hand, Honora had read Mrs. Kame.  No very careful perusal was needed to convince her that the lady was unmoral, and that in characteristics she resembled the chameleon.  But she read deeper.  She perceived that Mrs. Kame was convinced that she, Honora, would adjust herself to the new conditions after a struggle; and that while she had a certain sympathy in the struggle, Mrs. Kame was of opinion that the sooner it was over with the better.  All women were born to be disillusionized.  Such was the key, at any rate, to the lady’s conduct that evening at dinner, when she capped the anecdotes of Mr. Pembroke and Mrs. Rindge and even of Chiltern with others not less risque but more fastidiously and ingeniously suggestive.  The reader may be spared their recital.

Since the meeting in the restaurant the day before, which had resulted in Hugh’s happy inspiration that the festival begun should be continued indefinitely at Highlawns, a kind of freemasonry had sprung up between the four.  Honora found herself, mercifully, outside the circle:  for such was the lively character of the banter that a considerable adroitness was necessary to obtain, between the talk and—­laughter, the ear of the company.  And so full were they of the reminiscences which had been crowded into the thirty hours or so they had spent together, that her comparative silence remained unnoticed.  To cite an example, Mr. Pembroke was continually being addressed as the Third Vice-president, an allusion that Mrs. Rindge eventually explained.