It was with such false reasonings as these, that Honor persuaded herself to keep the real state of things a secret, _pro tem._ at least, from her husband. He would never, she decided--even if he lived to the age of Methuselah--understand her feelings, or see things (even if she wrote to him about her father) as she saw them; and so, after sighing a little over her husband’s small amount of solicitude and comprehension regarding the trifling things that so much make or mar the happiness of a young and childless woman, Honor entered on her course of deception. She was interrupted in her cogitations--cogitations which so materially affected the future happiness of one who, albeit he wore his heart, as the saying is, on his sleeve, Honor had proved herself to be so little capable of comprehending--by a hasty knock from the “girl of the house”--the “young person,” whose back hair was thrust into a greasy net, and whose upper woman was clothed in a red Garibaldi that had evidently seen service, which warned the visitor from the country that by indulging herself in reflection, she was doing the wrong thing at the wrong time. Dinner was “on table,” as the parlour-maid (to whom Colonel Fred was in the habit of saying civil things) with no great show of respect informed her; and Honor, in some trepidation--for she did not feel exactly at home in her father’s house--hastily put the finishing touches to her simple toilette, and hurriedly, two steps at a time, in very unmatronly fashion, descended the many flights of stairs to the drawing-room. Colonel Norcott was standing on the hearthrug with his back to the fireless grate, when his daughter entered with an apology on her lips, and a pretty deprecating smile lighting up her face. Mrs. Norcott had already taken her seat at the round table, which had been cleared for dinner, and was gazing with large anxious eyes, anticipative of evil, on the pewter dish-cover, not one of the brightest specimens of its kind, that graced the simple board. “I am so sorry,” Honor was beginning; “I had my trunk to unpack; and my hair was so tumbled that I was obliged to undo it, and--” “And you couldn’t have been quicker if you’d done it for a bet,” said the Colonel good humouredly. “So now for the miserable meal we call dinner. You’ll wish yourself back at the farm-house, I suspect, when you taste the nastiness that Mrs. Thingummy treats us with. You get rather different grub at home--eh, Miss Honor?”