Our heroine was conscious of a pleasurable palpitation as she walked with her hostess across the little entry to the door of the drawing-room, where her eyes encountered an inviting and vivacious scene.  Some ten or a dozen guests, laughing and talking gayly, filled the spaces between the furniture; an upright piano was embedded in a corner, and the lady who had just executed the waltz had swung around on the stool, and was smiling up at a man who stood beside her with his hand in his pocket.  She was a decided brunette, neither tall nor short, with a suggestion of plumpness.

“That’s Lula Chandos,” explained Lily Dallam in her usual staccato, following Honora’s gaze, “at the piano, in ashes of roses.  She’s stopped mourning for her husband.  Trixy told her to-night she’d discarded the sackcloth and kept the ashes.  He’s awfully clever.  I don’t wonder that she’s crazy about him, do you?  He’s standing beside her.”

Honora took a good look at the famous Trixy, who resembled a certain type of military Englishman.  He had close-cropped hair and a close-cropped mustache; and his grey eyes, as they rested amusedly on Mrs. Chandos, seemed to have in them the light of mockery.

“Trixy!” cried his hostess, threading her way with considerable skill across the room and dragging Honora after her, “Trixy, I want to introduce you to Mrs. Spence.  Now aren’t you glad you came!”

It was partly, no doubt, by such informal introductions that Lily Dallam had made her reputation as the mistress of a house where one and all had such a good time.  Honora, of course, blushed to her temples, and everybody laughed—­even Mrs. Chandos.

“Glad,” said Mr. Brent, with his eyes on Honora, “does not quite express it.  You usually have a supply of superlatives, Lily, which you might have drawn on.”

“Isn’t he irrepressible?” demanded Lily Dallam, delightedly, “he’s always teasing.”

It was running through Honora’s mind, while Lily Dallam’s characteristic introductions of the other guests were in progress, that “irrepressible” was an inaccurate word to apply to Mr. Brent’s manner.  Honora could not define his attitude, but she vaguely resented it.  All of Lily’s guests had the air of being at home, and at that moment a young gentleman named Charley Goodwin, who was six feet tall and weighed two hundred pounds, was loudly demanding cocktails.  They were presently brought by a rather harassed-looking man-servant.

“I can’t get over how well you look in that gown, Lula,” declared Mrs. Dallam, as they went out to dinner.  “Trixy, what does she remind you of?”

“Cleopatra,” cried Warry Trowbridge, with an attempt to be gallant.

“Eternal vigilance,” said Mr. Brent, and they sat down amidst the laughter, Lily Dallam declaring that he was horrid, and Mrs. Chandos giving him a look of tender reproach.  But he turned abruptly to Honora, who was on his other side.

“Where did you drop down from, Mrs. Spence?” he inquired.