“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.

Honora, when she went to town for the day, generally could be sure of finding some one, at least, of the Holt family at home at luncheon time.  They lived still in the same house on Madison Avenue to which Aunt Mary and Uncle Tom had been invited to breakfast on the day of Honora’s arrival in her own country.  It had a wide, brownstone front, with a basement, and a high flight of steps leading up to the door.  Within, solemnity reigned, and this effect was largely produced by the prodigiously high ceilings and the black walnut doors and woodwork.  On the second floor, the library where the family assembled was more cheerful.  The books themselves, although in black-walnut cases, and the sun pouring in, assisted in making this effect.

Here, indeed, were stability and peace.  Here Honora remade the acquaintance of the young settlement worker, and of the missionary, now on the Presbyterian Board of Missions.  Here she charmed other friends and allies of the Holt family; and once met, somewhat to her surprise, two young married women who differed radically from the other guests of the house.  Honora admired their gowns if not their manners; for they ignored her, and talked to Mrs. Holt about plans for raising money for the Working Girl’s Relief Society.

“You should join us, my dear,” said Mrs. Holt; “I am sure you would be interested in our work.”

“I’d be so glad to, Mrs. Holt,” replied Honora, “if only I didn’t live in the country.”

She came away as usual, feeling of having run into a cul de sac.  Mrs. Holt’s house was a refuge, not an outlet; and thither Honora directed her steps when a distaste for lunching alone or with some of her Rivington friends in the hateful, selfish gayety of a fashionable restaurant overcame her; or when her moods had run through a cycle, and an atmosphere of religion and domesticity became congenial.