While we are confessing the trials and weaknesses of our heroine, we shall have to admit that she read, occasionally, the society columns of the newspapers.  And in this manner she grew to have a certain familiarity with the doings of those favourites of fortune who had more delightful engagements than hours in which to fulfil them.  So intimate was Lily Dallam with many of these Olympians that she spoke of them by their first names, or generally by their nicknames.  Some two years after Honora’s marriage the Dallams had taken a house in that much discussed colony of Quicksands, where sport and pleasure reigned supreme:  and more than once the gown which Mrs. Sidney Dallam had worn to a polo match had been faithfully described in the public prints, or the dinners which she had given at the Quicksands Club.  One of these dinners, Honora learned, had been given in honour of Mr. Trixton Brent.

“You ought to know Trixy, Honora,” Mrs. Dallam declared; “he’d be crazy about you.”

Time passed, however, and Mrs. Dallam made no attempt to bring about this most desirable meeting.  When Honora and Howard went to town to dine with the Dallams, it was always at a restaurant, a ‘partie carree’.  Lily Dallam thought it dull to dine at home, and they went to the theatre afterwards—­invariably a musical comedy.  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 scarcely see anything at all of you.”

Howard roused himself.

“Where are we now?” he asked.

“Oh,” cried Honora, “we haven’t passed Hydeville.  Howard, who is Trixton Brent?”

“What about him?” demanded her husband.

“Nothing—­except that he is one of Lily’s friends, and she said she knew —­I should like him.  I wish you would be more interested in people.  Who is he?”

“One of the best-known operators in the market,” Howard answered, and his air implied that a lack of knowledge of Mr. Brent was ignorance indeed; “a daring gambler.  He cornered cotton once, and raked in over a million.  He’s a sport, too.”

“How old is he?”

“About forty-three.”

“Is he married?” inquired Honora.

“He’s divorced,” said Howard.  And she had to be content with so much of the gentleman’s biography, for her husband relapsed into somnolence again.  A few days later she saw a picture of Mr. Brent, in polo costume, in one of the magazines.  She thought him good-looking, and wondered what kind of a wife he had had.