“No,” she replied. “Has Mr. Grainger been at Quicksands since?”
“Nobody knows where he's been,” answered Mr. Cuthbert. “It's a mystery. He hasn't been home—at Newport, I mean-for a fortnight. He's never stayed away so long without letting any one know where he is. Naturally they thought he was at Mrs. Kame's in Banbury, but she hasn't laid eyes on him. It's a mystery. My own theory is that he went to sleep in a parlour car and was sent to the yards, and hasn't waked up.”
“And isn't Mrs. Grainger worried?” asked Honora.
“Oh, you never can tell anything about her,” he said. “Do you know her? She's a sphinx. All the Pendletons are Stoics. And besides, she's been so busy with this Charities Conference that she hasn't had time to think of Cecil. Who's that?”
“That” was a lady from Rivington, one of Honora's former neighbours, to whom she had bowed. Life, indeed, is full of contrasts. Mr. Cuthbert, too, was continually bowing and waving to acquaintances on the Avenue.
Thus pleasantly conversing, they arrived at the first house on the list, and afterwards went through a succession of them. Once inside, Honora would look helplessly about her in the darkness while her escort would raise the shades, admitting a gloomy light on bare interiors or shrouded furniture.
And the rents: Four, five, six, and seven and eight thousand dollars a year. Pride prevented her from discussing these prices with Mr. Cuthbert; and in truth, when lunch time came, she had seen nothing which realized her somewhat vague but persistent ideals.
“I'm so much obliged to you,” she said, “and I hope you'll forgive me for wasting your time.”
Mr. Cuthbert smiled broadly, and Honora smiled too.
Indeed, there was something ludicrous in the remark. He assumed an attitude of reflection.