Mrs. Holt made no attempt to enter, but stared fixedly at the cigarette that Mrs. Chandos still held in her trembling fingers. Howard crossed the room in the midst of an intense silence.
“Glad to see you, Mrs. Holt,” he said. “Er—won't you come in and—and sit down?”
“Thank you, Howard” she replied, “I do not wish to interrupt your party. It is my usual hour for retiring.
“And I think, my dear,” she added, turning to Honora, “that I'll ask you to excuse me, and show me to my room.”
“Certainly, Mrs. Holt,” said Honora, breathlessly.
“Howard, ring the bell.”
She led the way up the stairs to the guest-chamber with the rose paper and the little balcony. As she closed the door gusts of laughter reached them from the floor below, and she could plainly distinguish the voices of May Barclay and Trixton Brent.
“I hope you'll be comfortable, Mrs. Holt,” she said. “Your maid will be in the little room across the hall and I believe you like breakfast at eight.”
“You mustn't let me keep you from your guests, Honora.”
“Oh, Mrs. Holt,” she said, on the verge of tears, “I don't want to go to them. Really, I don't.”