Honoria took Frothingham to the Grand Central Station to meet Catherine, and he liked the very first glimpse of her as she came striding down the platform. She was tall and narrow, and she wore dresses and wraps that emphasised both these characteristics. She had a long, thin neck and a small, delicately coloured face, which she knew how to frame most fascinatingly in her hair, with or without the aid of her hat. She had dreamy young eyes, long and narrow, and her red lips and her slender, nervous fingers made it clear that she lived in her senses rather than in her intellect--that she would neither say nor think anything brilliant, but would feel intensely, and could be powerfully appealed to through her imagination. She was wearing a light brown, brightly lined coat that trailed to her heels; and she was holding up from the dust and close about her many folds of soft, fine materials, cloth and silk and linen and lace. In her wake came a maid and a porter, each laden with her belongings, an attractive array of comforts and luxuries of travel. “I’m glad you brought a closed carriage,” she said, with a shiver, as they started for home. “It’s raw, and the sky seems to weigh upon one’s shoulders and head. This is a day to hide in the house, close by an open fire.” Frothingham was surprised by this fairy-princess delicateness in so robust a creature. He thought the day mild, and as for the sky, why bother about anything that far away, so long as it sent nothing down to bother one? “You forget we are English,” said Honoria. “We call this good weather. I must confess the closed carriage was a happy accident.” “So like you, Honoria! Isn’t it, Lord Frothingham?” Catherine gave him a sweet smile. “She never permits one to keep agreeable illusions. Now, I was loving her for being so thoughtful for me.” As Frothingham only stared, shy and stolid, through his eyeglass, the two girls began to talk each to the other--they had not met in two years, not since Catherine and her mother visited Honoria at Longview’s place in Bucks. “What a beautiful place it was!” said Catherine. “I often dream of it. But then, I love England. It is of such a wonderful, vivid shade of green, and everything is so cultivated, and refined, and--and--like a fairy garden. Don’t you find the contrast very great, Lord Frothingham? We are very new and wild.” “I’ve seen only people since I’ve been here. I must say the people--at least, those I’ve met--remind me of home, except that they speak the language differently. As for the city, it’s not at all as I fancied. It’s much like Paris--more attractive than London, not so gloomy.” “Paris!” Catherine smiled, with gently reproachful satire. “Oh, you flatter us.” “I like it better,” insisted Frothingham. “It’s Paris with English in the streets--I hate Frenchmen.” “No, they’re not nice to look at--the men,” admitted Catherine. “But I adore what they’ve done. What would the world be without France?”