“Surely, Howard,” she said, “you're not going to church in those clothes.”
“I hadn't thought of going to church,” replied Mr. Spence, helping himself to cherries.
“What do you intend to do?” asked his hostess.
“Read the stock reports for the week as soon as the newspapers arrive.”
“There is no such thing as a Sunday newspaper in my house,” said Mrs. Holt.
“No Sunday newspapers!” he exclaimed. And his eyes, as they encountered Honora's,—who sought to avoid them,—expressed a genuine dismay.
“I am afraid,” said Mrs. Holt, “that I was right when I spoke of the pernicious effect of Wall Street upon young men. Your mother did not approve of Sunday newspapers.”
During the rest of the meal, although he made a valiant attempt to hold his own, Mr. Spence was, so to speak, outlawed. Robert and Joshua must have had a secret sympathy for him. One of them mentioned the Vicomte.
“The Vicomte is a foreigner,” declared Mrs. Holt. “I am in no sense responsible for him.”
The Vicomte was at that moment propped up in bed, complaining to his valet about the weakness of the coffee. He made the remark (which he afterwards repeated to Honora) that weak coffee and the Protestant religion seemed inseparable; but he did not attempt to discover the whereabouts, in Sutton, of the Church of his fathers. He was not in the best of humours that morning, and his toilet had advanced no further when, an hour or so later, he perceived from behind his lace curtains Mr. Howard Spence, dressed with comparative soberness, handing Honora into the omnibus. The incident did not serve to improve the cynical mood in which the Vicomte found himself.