It was on the tip of Mrs. Brande’s tongue to say, “Delays are dangerous,” but she closed her lips. “Where is Honor?” inquired Mrs. Langrishe, with rare effusion. “She has gone off down the khud to get ivy for the table. I have a small dinner this evening.” “You are always having dinners, you wonderful woman.” “Well, you see, in Pelham’s _position_, we must entertain, and I make it a rule to have a dinner once a week.” “You are quite a providence to the station!” cried her visitor affectedly. “How pretty those grasses are. I suppose Honor arranged them? What a useful girl she is!” “Yes, she takes all trouble off my hands. I don’t know how I shall ever get on without her.” “How lucky for you, that there is no chance of her _leaving_ you! My dear, that was a most unfortunate affair about Mr. Jervis.” “What do you mean?” inquired Mrs. Brande, whose crest began to rise. “Oh,” with a disagreeable laugh, “it is what did _he mean_! He paid Honor the most devoted attention, and the moment he was revealed in his true colours--he fled. No one knows what has become of him.” “Pardon me--_we_ do!” returned his champion, with a quiver of her double chin. “And--where is he, dear? what is he doing?” “He is doing a good--a noble action. Putting himself and his wishes aside for the sake of others,” returned Mrs. Brande in a white heat of emotion. “Oh well,” rather disconcerted, “if you and Honor, and above all _Mr. Brande_, are satisfied, of course there is no more to be said----” “No,” pointedly. “I hope no more will _be_ said. Have you seen the photograph of my other niece, Honor’s sister?” making a desperate effort to rally and change the conversation, and reaching for the frame, which she solemnly placed in Mrs. Langrishe’s hand. “What do you think of her?” Here at least she was certain of scoring a small triumph. “Think, my dear woman! Why, that she is perfectly lovely.” (It was safe to praise a girl who was in England.) “At first she was coming out to me,” her aunt pursued, “but she changed her mind. Now we are thinking of having her out in November with the Hadfield’s girl.” “Indeed,” said Mrs. Langrishe, reflectively, and still nursing the picture, as it were, on her knee. She had a wonderful knack of picking up odd bits of news, and her brain contained useful little scraps of the most promiscuous description. Her mind was a sort of ragbag, and these scraps often came in appropriately. She rummaged out a scrap now. She had recently heard, from a cousin of hers (an artist), of a Mrs. Gordon, a widow with two daughters, one of them lovely, who was sitting to him as Rowena--an ideal Rowena--but who was also a dwarf--a sort of little creature that you might exhibit. “Does your niece live at Hoyle, and is her name Fairy?” “Yes. Why do you ask?” rather eagerly. “I have heard of her, recently, from my cousin, Oscar Crabbe. And why did she not come out?” looking at her with a queer smile.