“Home,” answered Honora, a little breathlessly, and added for his deception, “the game's over, isn't it? I'm glad you won.”
Mr. Brent, however, continued to gaze at her penetratingly, and she avoided his eyes.
“But why are you rushing off like a flushed partridge?—no reference to your complexion. Has there been a row?”
“Oh, no—I was just—tired. Please let me go.”
“Being your good angel—or physician, as you choose—I have a prescription for that kind of weariness,” he said smilingly. “I—anticipated such an attack. That's why I got into my clothes in such record time.”
“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.”