“Why—my dear!” she exclaimed, in astonishment. “Honora!”
“Oh,” cried Honora, “I'm so glad you're here. I was so afraid you'd be out.”
In the embrace that followed both the glasses and the mission report fell to the floor. Honora picked them up.
“Sit down, my dear, and tell me how you happen to be here,” said Mrs. Holt. “I suppose Howard is downstairs.”
“No, he isn't,” said Honora, rather breathlessly; “that's the reason I came here. That's one reason, I mean. I was coming to see you this morning, but I simply didn't have time for a call after I got to town.”
Mrs. Holt settled herself in the middle of the sofa, the only piece of furniture in the room in harmony with her ample proportions. Her attitude and posture were both judicial, and justice itself spoke in her delft-blue eyes.
“Tell me all about it,” she said, thus revealing her suspicions that there was something to tell.
“I was just going to,” said Honora, hastily, thinking of Trixton Brent waiting in the ladies' parlour. “I took lunch at Delmomico's with Mr. Grainger, and Mr. Brent, and Mrs. Kame—”
“Cecil Grainger?” demanded Mrs. Holt.
Honora trembled.