“Bon voyage!” she cried. “What an ideal party! and the chauffeur doesn't understand English. If you don't turn up this evening, Honora, I'll entertain your guests.”
“We must get back,” said Honora, involuntarily to Brent. “It would be too dreadful if we didn't!”
“Are you afraid I'll run off with you?” he asked.
“I believe you're perfectly capable of it,” she replied. “If I were wise, I'd take the train.”
“Why don't you?” he demanded.
She smiled.
“I don't know. It's because of your deteriorating influence, I suppose. And yet I trust you, in spite of my instincts and—my eyes. I'm seriously put out with you.”
“Why?”
“I'll tell you later, if you're at a loss,” she said, as Mrs. Kame and Mr. Grainger appeared.
Eight years have elapsed since that day and this writing—an aeon in this rapidly moving Republic of ours. The roads, although far from perfect yet, were not then what they have since become. But the weather was dry and the voyage to Westchester accomplished successfully. It was half-past three when they drove up the avenue and deposited Mrs. Kame and Cecil Grainger at the long front of the Faunce house: and Brent, who had been driving, relinquished the wheel to the chauffeur and joined Honora in the tonneau. The day was perfect, the woods still heavy with summer foliage, and the only signs of autumn were the hay mounds and the yellowing cornstalks stacked amidst the stubble of the fields.