And Honoria agreed. Nor did she shrink when Richard slipping out of his chair picked up his crutches.—"I suppose it is about time to get ready for the Grimshott function," he said.—She walked beside him to the door, opened it and passed into the neutral-tinted, tapestry-hung dining-room. There the young man waited a moment. He looked not at her but straight before him.
"Honoria," he said suddenly, almost harshly, "you and Helen de Vallorbes used to be great friends. For more than a year I have held no communication with her, except through my lawyers. Can you tell me anything about her?"
Miss St. Quentin hesitated.
"Nothing very direct—I heard from de Vallorbes about three months ago. I don't think I am faithless—indeed I held on to her as long as I could, Richard! I am not squeamish, and then I always prefer to stand by the woman. But whatever de Vallorbes may have been, he pulled himself together rather admirably from the time he went into the army. He wanted to keep straight and to live respectably. And—I hate to say so—but she treated him a little too flagrantly. And then—and then——"
Honoria put her hands over her eyes and shook back her head angrily.
"It wasn't one man, Richard."
Dickie went white to the lips.
"I know that," he said.
He moved forward a few steps.
"Who is it now? Destournelle?"