“Oh,” he said, “you must remember that I’m—­Lucifer, a citizen of the world, at home anywhere, a sort of ’freebooter.  I’m not here all the time—­but that’s no reflection on Quicksands.  May I make a bet with you, Mrs. Spence?”

“What about?”

“That you won’t stay in Quicksands more than six months,” he answered.

“Why do you say that?” she asked curiously.

He shook his head.

“My experience with your sex,” he declared enigmatically, “has not been a slight one.”

“Trixy!” interrupted Mrs. Chandos at this juncture, from his other side, “Warry Trowbridge won’t tell me whether to sell my Consolidated Potteries stock.”

“Because he doesn’t know,” said Mr. Brent, laconically, and readdressed himself to Honora, who had, however, caught a glimpse of Mrs. Chandos’ face.

“Don’t you think it’s time for you to talk to Mrs. Chandos?” she asked.

“What for?”

“Well, for one reason, it is customary, out of consideration for the hostess, to assist in turning the table.”

“Lily doesn’t care,” he said.

“How about Mrs. Chandos?  I have an idea that she does care.”

He made a gesture of indifference.

“And how about me?” Honora continued.  “Perhaps—­I’d like to talk to Mr. Dallam.”

“Have you ever tried it?” he demanded.

Over her shoulder she flashed back at him a glance which he did not return.  She had never, to tell the truth, given her husband’s partner much consideration.  He had existed in her mind solely as an obliging shopkeeper with whom Lily had unlimited credit, and who handed her over the counter such things as she desired.  And to-night, in contrast to Trixton Brent, Sidney Dallam suggested the counter more than ever before.  He was about five and forty, small, neatly made, with little hands and feet; fast growing bald, and what hair remained to him was a jet black.  His suavity of manner and anxious desire to give one just the topic that pleased had always irritated Honora.

Good shopkeepers are not supposed to have any tastes, predilections, or desires of their own, and it was therefore with no little surprise that, after many haphazard attempts, Honora discovered Mr, Dallam to be possessed by one all-absorbing weakness.  She had fallen in love, she remarked, with little Sid on the beach, and Sidney Dallam suddenly became transfigured.  Was she fond of children?  Honora coloured a little, and said “yes.”  He confided to her, with an astonishing degree of feeling, that it had been the regret of his life he had not had more children.  Nobody, he implied, who came to his house had ever exhibited the proper interest in Sid.

“Sometimes,” he said, leaning towards her confidentially, “I slip upstairs for a little peep at him after dinner.”

“Oh,” cried Honora, “if you’re going to-night mayn’t I go with you?  I’d love to see him in bed.”