“I don’t know what you mean,” faltered Honora.  “You are always imagining all sorts of things about me that aren’t true.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Brent, “I have promised faithfully to do a favor for certain friends of mine who have been clamouring to be presented to you.”

“I can’t—­to-day—­Mr. Brent,” she cried.  “I really don’t feel like-meeting people.  I told Lily Dallam I was going home.”

The group, however, which had been the object of that lady’s remarks was already moving towards them—­with the exception of Mrs. Shorter and Mr. Farwell, who had left it.  They greeted Mr. Brent with great cordiality.

“Mrs. Kame,” he said, “let me introduce Mrs. Spence.  And Mrs. Spence, Mr. Grainger, Mr. Wing, and Mr. Cuthbert.  Mrs. Spence was just going home.”

“Home!” echoed Mrs. Kame, “I thought Quicksands people never went home after a victory.”

“I’ve scarcely been here long enough,” replied Honora, “to have acquired all of the Quicksands habits.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Kame, and looked at Honora again.  “Wasn’t that Mrs. Dallam you were with?  I used to know her, years ago, but she doesn’t speak to me any more.”

“Perhaps she thinks you’ve forgotten her,” said Honora.

“It would be impossible to forget Mrs. Dallam,” declared Mrs. Kame.

“So I should have thought,” said Honora.

Trixton Brent laughed, and Mrs. Kame, too, after a moment’s hesitation.  She laid her hand familiarly on Mr. Brent’s arm.

“I haven’t seen you all summer, Trixy,” she said.  “I hear you’ve been here at Quicksands, stewing in that little packing-case of yours.  Aren’t you coming into our steeplechase at Banbury.

“I believe you went to school with my sister,” said young Mr. Wing.

“Oh, yes,” answered Honora, somewhat surprised.  “I caught a glimpse of her once, in New York.  I hope you will remember me to her.”

“And I’ve seen you before,” proclaimed Mr. Cuthbert, “but I can’t for the life of me think where.”

Honora did not enlighten him.

“I shan’t forget, at any rate, Mrs. Spence,” said Cecil Grainger, who had not taken his eyes from her, except to blink.

Mrs. Kame saved her the embarrassment of replying.

“Can’t we go somewhere and play bridge,” Trixy demanded.

“I’d be delighted to offer you the hospitality of my packing-case, as you call it,” said Brent, “but the dining-room ceiling fell down Wednesday, and I’m having the others bolstered up as a mere matter of precaution.”

“I suppose we couldn’t get a fourth, anyway.  Neither Jimmy nor Toots plays.  It’s so stupid of them not to learn.”

“Mrs. Spence might, help us out,” suggested Brent.

“Do you play?” exclaimed Mrs. Kame, in a voice of mixed incredulity and hope.

“Play!” cried Mr. Brent, “she can teach Jerry Shorter or the Duchess of Taunton.”