“How d'ye do!” said Mr. Grainger, blinking at her when this ceremony was accomplished. “I'm awfully glad to see you, Mrs. Spence, upon my word.”
Honora could not doubt it. But he had little time to express his joy, because of the appearance of his wife at Honora's elbow with a tall man she had summoned from a corner.
“Before we go to dinner I must introduce my cousin, Mr. Chiltern—he is to have the pleasure of taking you out,” she said.
His name was in the class of those vaguely familiar: vaguely familiar, too, was his face. An extraordinary face, Honora thought, glancing at it as she took his arm, although she was struck by something less tangible than the unusual features. He might have belonged to any nationality within the limits of the Caucasian race. His short, kinky, black hair suggested great virility, an effect intensified by a strongly bridged nose, sinewy hands, and bushy eyebrows. But the intangible distinction was in the eyes that looked out from under these brows the glimpse she had of them as he bowed to her gravely, might be likened to the hasty reading of a chance page in a forbidden book. Her attention was arrested, her curiosity aroused. She was on that evening, so to speak, exposed for and sensitive to impressions. She was on the threshold of the Alhambra.
“Hugh has such a faculty,” complained Mr. Grainger, “of turning up at the wrong moment!”
Dinner was announced. She took Chiltern's arm, and they fell into file behind a lady in yellow, with a long train, who looked at her rather hard. It was Mrs. Freddy Maitland. Her glance shifted to Chiltern, and it seemed to Honora that she started a little.
“Hello, Hugh,” she said indifferently, looking back over her shoulder; “have you turned up again?”
“Still sticking to the same side of your horse, I see.” he replied, ignoring the question. “I told you you'd get lop-sided.”
The deformity, if there were any, did not seem to trouble her.
“I'm going to Florida Wednesday. We want another man. Think it over.”