“I, too, have learned a lesson,” he replied. “I have learned the difference between nature and art. I am something of a connoisseur in art. I bow to nature, and pay my bets.”
“Your bets?” she asked, with a look.
“My renunciations, forfeits, whatever you choose to call them. I have been fairly and squarely beaten—but by nature, not by art. That is my consolation.”
Laughter struck into her eyes like a shaft of sunlight into a well; her emotions were no longer to be distinguished. And in that moment she wondered what would have happened if she had loved this man, and why she had not. And when next he spoke, she started.
“How is my elderly dove-coloured friend this morning?” he asked. “That dinner with her was one of the great events of my life. I didn't suppose such people existed any more.”
“Perhaps you'll stay to breakfast with her,” suggested Honora, smiling. “I know she'd like to see you again.”
“No, thanks,” he said, taking her hand, “I'm on my way to the train—I'd quite forgotten it. Au revoir!” He reached the end of the porch, turned, and called back, “As a 'dea ex machina', she has never been equalled.”
Honora stood for a while looking after him, until she heard a footstep behind her,—Mrs. Holt's.
“Who was that, my dear?” she asked, “Howard?”
“Howard has gone, Mrs. Holt,” Honora replied, rousing herself. “I must make his apologies. It was Mr. Brent.”