“I, for one,” he said, with a slight bow which gave to his words a touch somewhat elaborate, “will be delighted.” And he shot at Honora a glance compounded of many feelings, which she returned smilingly.
“Is that the waiter?” asked Mrs. Holt.
“That is a waiter,” said Trixton Brent, glancing at the motionless figure. “Shall I call him?”
“If you please,” said Mrs. Holt. “Honora, you must tell me what you like.”
“Anything, Mrs. Holt,” said Honora.
“If we are to leave a little after nine,” said that lady, balancing her glasses on her nose and glancing at the card, “we have not, I'm afraid, time for many courses.”
The head waiter greeted them at the door of the dining-room. He, too, was a man of wisdom and experience. He knew Mrs. Holt, and he knew Trixton Brent. If gravity had not been a life-long habit with him, one might have suspected him of a desire to laugh. As it was, he seemed palpably embarrassed,—for Mr. Brent had evidently been conversing with him.
“Two, sir?” he asked.
“Three,” said Mrs. Holt, with dignity.
The head waiter planted them conspicuously in the centre of the room; one of the strangest parties, from the point of view of a connoisseur of New York, that ever sat down together. Mrs. Holt with her curls, and her glasses laid flat on the bosom of her dove-coloured dress; Honora in a costume dedicated to the very latest of the sports, and Trixton Brent in English tweeds. The dining-room was full. But here and there amongst the diners, Honora observed, were elderly people who smiled discreetly as they glanced in their direction—friends, perhaps, of Mrs. Holt. And suddenly, in one corner, she perceived a table of six where the mirth was less restrained.