“What are you thinking of?” he asked.
“I am thinking of Mrs. Holt's expression when we tell her,” said Honora. “But we shan't tell her yet, shall we, Howard? We'll have it for our own secret a little while.”
The golf course being deserted, he pressed her arm.
“We'll tell her whenever you like, dear,” he replied.
In spite of the fact that they drove Joshua's trotter to lunch—much too rapidly in the heat of the day, they were late.
“I shall never be able to go in there and not give it away,” he whispered to her on the stairs.
“You look like the Cheshire cat in the tree,” whispered Honora, laughing, “only more purple, and not so ghostlike.”
“I know I'm smiling,” replied Howard, “I feel like it, but I can't help it. It won't come off. I want to blurt out the news to every one in the dining-room—to that little Frenchman, in particular.”
Honora laughed again. Her imagination easily summoned up the tableau which such a proceeding would bring forth. The incredulity, the chagrin, the indignation, even, in some quarters. He conceived the household, with the exception of the Vicomte, precipitating themselves into his arms.
Honora, who was cool enough herself (no doubt owing to the superior training which women receive in matters of deportment), observed that his entrance was not a triumph of dissimulation. His colour was high, and his expression, indeed, a little idiotic; and he declared afterwards that he felt like a sandwich-man, with the news printed in red letters before and behind. Honora knew that the intense improbability of the truth would save them, and it did. Mrs. Holt remarked, slyly, that the game of golf must have hidden attractions, and regretted that she was too old to learn it.