Some one spoke in the doorway.
“Mr. Grainger, madam.”
Before she could rouse herself and recover from her astonishment, the gentleman himself appeared, blinking as though the vision of her were too bright to be steadily gazed at. If the city had been searched, it is doubtful whether a more striking contrast to the man who had just left could have been found than Cecil Grainger in the braided, grey cutaway that clung to the semblance of a waist he still possessed. In him Hyde Park and Fifth Avenue, so to speak, shook hands across the sea: put him in either, and he would have appeared indigenous.
“Hope you'll forgive my comin' 'round on such slight acquaintance, Mrs. Spence,” said he. “Couldn't resist the opportunity to pay my respects. Shorter told me where you were.”
“That was very good of Mr. Shorter,” said Honora, whose surprise had given place to a very natural resentment, since she had not the honour of knowing Mrs. Grainger.
“Oh,” said Mr. Grainger, “Shorter's a good sort. Said he'd been here himself to see how you were fixed, and hadn't found you in. Uncommonly well fixed, I should say,” he added, glancing around the room with undisguised approval. “Why the deuce did she furnish it, since she's gone to Paris to live with Rindge?”
“I suppose you mean Mrs. Rindge,” said Honora. “She didn't furnish it.”
Mr. Grainger winked at her rapidly, like a man suddenly brought face to face with a mystery.
“Oh!” he replied, as though he had solved it. The solution came a few moments later. “It's ripping!” he said. “Farwell couldn't have done it any better.”
Honora laughed, and momentarily forgot her resentment.