“Is he—­full grown?” asked Honora.

Lilly Dallam burst out laughing.

“Bless you, I don’t mean Patrick,—­although I had a terrible time finding him.  I mean the horse.  Trixy Brent gave him to me before he went abroad.”

“Gave him to you!” Honora exclaimed.

“Oh, he’s always doing kind things like that, and he hadn’t any use for him.  My dear, I hope you don’t think for an instant Trixy’s in love with me!  He’s crazy about Lula Chandos.  I tried so hard to get her to come to dinner to-night, and the Trowbridges’ and the Barclays’.  You’ve no idea how difficult it is in New York to get any one under two weeks.  And so we’ve got just ourselves.”

Honora was on the point of declaring, politely, that she was very glad, when Lily Dallam asked her how she liked the brougham.

“It’s the image of Mrs. Cecil Grainger’s, my dear, and I got it for a song.  As long as Trixy gave me the horse, I told Sid the least he could do was to give me the brougham and the harness.  Is Master Sid asleep?” she inquired of the maid who had been patiently waiting at the door.  “I meant to have got home in time to kiss him.”

She led Honora up the narrow but thickly carpeted stairs to a miniature boudoir, where Madame Adelaide, in a gilt rococo frame, looked superciliously down from the walls.

“Why haven’t you been in to see me since my tea, Honora?  You were such a success, and after you left they were all crazy to know something about you, and why they hadn’t heard of you.  My dear, how much did little Harris charge you for that dress?  If I had your face and neck and figure I’d die before I’d live in Rivington.  You’re positively wasted, Honora.  And if you stay there, no one will look at you, though you were as beautiful as Mrs. Langtry.”

“You’re rather good-looking yourself, Lily,” said Honora.

“I’m ten years older than you, my dear, and I have to be so careful.  Sid says I’m killing myself, but I’ve found a little massage woman who is wonderful.  How do you like this dress?”

“All your things are exquisite.”

“Do you think so?” cried Mrs. Dallam, delightedly.

Honora, indeed, had not perjured herself.  Only the hypercritical, when Mrs. Dallam was dressed, had the impression of a performed miracle.  She was the most finished of finished products.  Her complexion was high and (be it added) natural, her hair wonderfully ‘onduled’, and she had withal the sweetest and kindest of smiles and the most engaging laughter in the world.  It was impossible not to love her.

“Howard,” she cried, when a little later they were seated at the table, “how mean of you to have kept Honora in a dead and alive place like Rivington all these years!  I think she’s an angel to have stood it.  Men are beyond me.  Do you know what an attractive wife you’ve got?  I’ve just been telling her that there wasn’t a woman at my tea who compared with her, and the men were crazy about her.”