All of these women, apparently, had something definite to do, somewhere to go, some one to meet the very next, minute.  They protested to milliners and dressmakers if they were kept waiting, and even seemed impatient of time lost if one by chance bumped into them.  But Honora had no imperative appointments.  Lily Dallam was almost sure to be out, or going out immediately, and seemed to have more engagements than any one in New York.

“I’m so sorry, my dear,” she would say, and add reproachfully:  “why didn’t you telephone me you were coming?  If you had only let me know we might have lunched together or gone to the matinee.  Now I have promised Clara Trowbridge to go to a lunch party at her house.”

Mrs. Dallam had a most convincing way of saying such things, and in spite of one’s self put one in the wrong for not having telephoned.  But if indeed Honora telephoned—­as she did once or twice in her innocence—­Lily was quite as distressed.

“My dear, why didn’t you let me know last night?  Trixy Brent has given Lula Chandos his box at the Horse Show, and Lula would never, never forgive me if I backed out.”

Although she lived in an apartment—­in a most attractive one, to be sure —­there could be no doubt about it that Lily Dallam was fashionable.  She had a way with her, and her costumes were marvellous.  She could have made her fortune either as a dressmaker or a house decorator, and she bought everything from “little” men and women whom she discovered herself.  It was a curious fact that all of these small tradespeople eventually became fashionable, too.  Lily was kind to Honora, and gave her their addresses before they grew to be great and insolent and careless whether one patronized them or not.

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.