The magical transformation of all this into a sunny, smiling, white villa with red-striped awnings and well-kept lawns and just enough shade had done no little towards giving to Lily Dallam that ascendency which she had acquired with such startling rapidity in the community.  When Honora and Howard drove up to the door in the deepening twilight, every window was a yellow, blazing square, and above the sound of voices rose a waltz from “Lady Emmeline” played with vigour on the piano.  Lily Dallam greeted Honora in the little room which (for some unexplained reason) was known as the library, pressed into service at dinner parties as the ladies’ dressing room.

“My dear, how sweet you look in that coral!  I’ve been so lucky to-night,” she added in Honora’s ear; “I’ve actually got Trixy Brent for you.”

Our heroine was conscious of a pleasurable palpitation as she walked with her hostess across the little entry to the door of the drawing-room, where her eyes encountered an inviting and vivacious scene.  Some ten or a dozen guests, laughing and talking gayly, filled the spaces between the furniture; an upright piano was embedded in a corner, and the lady who had just executed the waltz had swung around on the stool, and was smiling up at a man who stood beside her with his hand in his pocket.  She was a decided brunette, neither tall nor short, with a suggestion of plumpness.

“That’s Lula Chandos,” explained Lily Dallam in her usual staccato, following Honora’s gaze, “at the piano, in ashes of roses.  She’s stopped mourning for her husband.  Trixy told her to-night she’d discarded the sackcloth and kept the ashes.  He’s awfully clever.  I don’t wonder that she’s crazy about him, do you?  He’s standing beside her.”

Honora took a good look at the famous Trixy, who resembled a certain type of military Englishman.  He had close-cropped hair and a close-cropped mustache; and his grey eyes, as they rested amusedly on Mrs. Chandos, seemed to have in them the light of mockery.

“Trixy!” cried his hostess, threading her way with considerable skill across the room and dragging Honora after her, “Trixy, I want to introduce you to Mrs. Spence.  Now aren’t you glad you came!”

It was partly, no doubt, by such informal introductions that Lily Dallam had made her reputation as the mistress of a house where one and all had such a good time.  Honora, of course, blushed to her temples, and everybody laughed—­even Mrs. Chandos.

“Glad,” said Mr. Brent, with his eyes on Honora, “does not quite express it.  You usually have a supply of superlatives, Lily, which you might have drawn on.”

“Isn’t he irrepressible?” demanded Lily Dallam, delightedly, “he’s always teasing.”

It was running through Honora’s mind, while Lily Dallam’s characteristic introductions of the other guests were in progress, that “irrepressible” was an inaccurate word to apply to Mr. Brent’s manner.  Honora could not define his attitude, but she vaguely resented it.  All of Lily’s guests had the air of being at home, and at that moment a young gentleman named Charley Goodwin, who was six feet tall and weighed two hundred pounds, was loudly demanding cocktails.  They were presently brought by a rather harassed-looking man-servant.