world had of course held out longest; it had strongholds she might never capture.  But already seceders were beginning to show themselves, and her dinner-list that evening was graced with the names of an authentic Duke and a not too-damaged Countess.  In addition, of course, she had the Shallums, the Chauncey Ellings, May Beringer, Dicky Bowles, Walsingham Popple, and the rest of the New York frequenters of the Nouveau Luxe; she had even, at the last minute, had the amusement of adding Peter Van Degen to their number.  In the evening there were to be Spanish dancing and Russian singing; and Dicky Bowles had promised her a Grand Duke for her next dinner, if she could secure the new tenor who always refused to sing in private houses.

Even now, however, she was not always happy.  She had everything she wanted, but she still felt, at times, that there were other things she might want if she knew about them.  And there had been moments lately when she had had to confess to herself that Moffatt did not fit into the picture.  At first she had been dazzled by his success and subdued by his authority.  He had given her all she had ever wished for, and more than she had ever dreamed of having:  he had made up to her for all her failures and blunders, and there were hours when she still felt his dominion and exulted in it.  But there were others when she saw his defects and was irritated by them:  when his loudness and redness, his misplaced joviality, his familiarity with the servants, his alternating swagger and ceremony with her friends, jarred on perceptions that had developed in her unawares.  Now and then she caught herself thinking that his two predecessors—­who were gradually becoming merged in her memory—­would have said this or that differently, behaved otherwise in such and such a case.  And the comparison was almost always to Moffatt’s disadvantage.

This evening, however, she thought of him indulgently.  She was pleased with his clever stroke in capturing the Saint Desert tapestries, which General Arlington’s sudden bankruptcy, and a fresh gambling scandal of Hubert’s, had compelled their owner to part with.  She knew that Raymond de Chelles had told the dealers he would sell his tapestries to anyone but Mr. Elmer Moffatt, or a buyer acting for him; and it amused her to think that, thanks to Elmer’s astuteness, they were under her roof after all, and that Raymond and all his clan were by this time aware of it.  These facts disposed her favourably toward her husband, and deepened the sense of well-being with which—­according to her invariable habit—­she walked up to the mirror above the mantelpiece and studied the image it reflected.

She was still lost in this pleasing contemplation when her husband entered, looking stouter and redder than ever, in evening clothes that were a little too tight.  His shirt front was as glossy as his baldness, and in his buttonhole he wore the red ribbon bestowed on him for waiving his claim to a Velasquez that was wanted for the Louvre.  He carried a newspaper in his hand, and stood looking about the room with a complacent eye.