"I'm sure of it," said Honora, who was very red.
They made a strange contrast as they stood on that new street, with its new vitrified brick paving and white stone curbs, and new little trees set out in front of new little houses: Mrs. Mayo (for such, Honora's cook had informed her, was her name) in a housekeeper's apron and a shirtwaist, and Honora, almost a head taller, in a walking costume of dark grey that would have done justice to Fifth Avenue. The admiration in the little woman's eyes was undisguised.
"You're getting a bill, I hear," she said, after a moment.
"A bill?" repeated Honora.
"A bill of divorce," explained Mrs. Mayo.
Honora was conscious of conflicting emotions: astonishment, resentment, and—most curiously—of relief that the little woman knew it.
"Yes," she answered.
But Mrs. Mayo did not appear to notice or resent her brevity.
"I took a fancy to you the minute I saw you," she said. "I can't say as much for the other Easterner that was here last year. But I made up my mind that it must be a mighty mean man who would treat you badly."
Honora stood as though rooted to the pavement. She found a reply impossible.