Yes, in spite of this stupid little contretemps about Pegler, she was glad indeed that circumstances over which she had had rather more control than she liked to think had made it impossible for her to go out to Monte Carlo this winter.  She had been sharply vexed, beside herself with annoyance, almost tempted to do what she had never yet done—­that is, to ask Lionel Varick, now so delightfully prosperous, to lend her a couple of hundred pounds.  But she had resisted the impulse, and she was now glad of it.

After all, there’s no place like dear old England at Christmas time.  How much nicer, too, is a bachelor host than a hostess!  A bachelor host?  No, not exactly a bachelor host, for Lionel Varick was a widower.  Twice a widower, if the truth were known.  But the truth, fortunately, is not always known, and Blanche Farrow doubted if any other member of the circle of friends and acquaintances he had picked up in his adventurous, curious life knew of that first—­now evidently by him almost forgotten—­marriage.  It had taken place years ago, when Varick was still a very young man, and to a woman not of his own class.  They had separated, and then, rather oddly, come together again.  Even so, her premature death had been for him a fortunate circumstance.

It was not Varick who had told Blanche Farrow of that painful episode of his past life.  The story had come to her knowledge in a curious, accidental fashion, and she had thought it only fair to tell him what she had learned—­and then, half reluctantly, he had revealed something of what he had suffered through that early act of folly.  But they had only spoken of it once.

Varick’s second marriage, Miss Farrow was almost tempted to call it his real marriage, the news of which he had conveyed to his good friend in a laconic note, had surprised her very much.

The news had found her far away, in Portugal, where, as just a few English people know, there is more than one Casino where mild gambling can be pursued under pleasant conditions.  Blanche Farrow would have been hurt if someone had told her that in far-away Portugal Lionel Varick and his affairs had not meant quite so much to her as they would have done if she had been nearer home.  Still, she had felt a pang.  A man-friend married is often a man-friend marred.  But she had been very glad to gather, reading between the lines of his note, that the lady in question was well off.  Varick was one of those men to whom the possession of money is as essential to life as the air they breathe is to most human beings.  Till this unexpected second marriage of his he had often been obliged to live on, and by, his wits.