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Updated: June 23, 2025
She knew that it would have been wiser not to have mentioned Howard; but Peter's silence, somehow, had impelled her to speak. "He has made quite an unusual success for so young a man." Peter looked at her and shook his head. "New York success! What is to become of poor old St. Louis?" he inquired. "Oh, I'm going back next week," Honora cried. "I wish I were going with you."
"I once told you you could be brutal," she said. "You haven't told me what you thought of the idea." "I wish you'd be sensible once in a while," she exclaimed. "Howard Spence, President of the Orange Trust Company!" he recited. "I suppose no man is a hero to his wife. Does it sound so incredible?" It did. But Honora did not say so.
Littleton Pryor with her good works, Miss Godfrey with her virtue all swallowed it as gracefully as possible. Noblesse oblige. Honora had read French and English memoirs, and knew that history repeats itself. And a biography that is printed in black letter and illuminated in gold is attractive in spite of its contents.
"If you start right after lunch, I'll take you out. We'll have plenty of time," he added to Honora, "to get back to Quicksands for dinner." "Are you sure?" she asked anxiously. "I have people for dinner tonight." "Oh, lots of time," declared Mrs. Kame. "Trixy's car is some unheard-of horse-power. It's only twenty-five miles to the Faunces', and you'll be back at the ferry by half-past four."
Robert, who went off in the middle of it with his family to the seashore, described it to Honora as a normal week. During its progress there came and went a missionary from China, a pianist, an English lady who had heard of the Institution, a Southern spinster with literary gifts, a youthful architect who had not built anything, and a young lawyer interested in settlement work.
Although Honora did not care particularly for musical comedies, she always experienced a certain feverish stimulation which kept her wide awake on the midnight train to Rivington. Howard had a most exasperating habit of dozing in the corner of the seat. "You are always sleepy when I have anything interesting to talk to you about," said Honora, "or reading stock reports.
"I really can't stay, Lily. I I don't feel up to it," said Honora, desperately. "And you can't know how I counted on you! You look perfectly fresh, my dear." Honora felt an overwhelming desire to hide herself, to be alone.
Could it be possible, Honora asked herself more than once, that his feelings were deeper than her feminine instinct and, the knowledge she had gleaned from novels led her to suspect?
"Only a little one," said Honora, "the simplest kind. But if you're poor " She had made a discovery to reflect upon his business success was to touch a sensitive nerve. "I'm not poor," he declared. "But the bottom's dropped out of the market, and even old Wing is economizing. We'll have to put on the brakes for awhile, Honora."
He was too tall, his shoulders were too high, his nose too prominent, his eyes too deep-set; and he wore a straw hat with the brim turned up. To Honora his appearance was as familiar as the picture of the Pope which had always stood on Catherine's bureau. But to-night, by grace of some added power of vision, she saw him with new and critical eyes.
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