It was not without appropriateness that Trixton Brent called his house the “Box.”  It was square, with no pretensions to architecture whatever, with a porch running all the way around it.  And it was literally filled with the relics of the man’s physical prowess cups for games of all descriptions, heads and skins from the Bitter Roots to Bengal, and masks and brushes from England.  To Honora there was an irresistible and mysterious fascination in all these trophies, each suggesting a finished —­and some perhaps a cruel—­performance of the man himself.  The cups were polished until they beat back the light like mirrors, and the glossy bear and tiger skins gave no hint of dying agonies.

Mr. Brent’s method with women, Honora observed, more resembled the noble sport of Isaac Walton than that of Nimrod, but she could not deny that this element of cruelty was one of his fascinations.  It was very evident to a feminine observer, for instance, that Mrs. Chandos was engaged in a breathless and altogether desperate struggle with the slow but inevitable and appalling Nemesis of a body and character that would not harmonize.  If her figure grew stout, what was to become of her charm as an ’enfant gate’?  Her host not only perceived, but apparently derived great enjoyment out of the drama of this contest.  From self-indulgence to self-denial—­even though inspired by terror—­is a far cry.  And Trixton Brent had evidently prepared his menu with a satanic purpose.

“What!  No entree, Lula?  I had that sauce especially for you.”

“Oh, Trixy, did you really?  How sweet of you!” And her liquid eyes regarded, with an almost equal affection, first the master and then the dish.  “I’ll take a little,” she said weakly; “it’s so bad for my gout.”

“What,” asked Trixton Brent, flashing an amused glance at Honora, “are the symptoms of gout, Lula?  I hear a great deal about that trouble these days, but it seems to affect every one differently.”

Mrs. Chandos grew very red, but Warry Trowbridge saved her.

“It’s a swelling,” he said innocently.

Brent threw back his head and laughed.

“You haven’t got it anyway, Warry,” he cried.

Mr. Trowbridge, who resembled a lean and greying Irish terrier, maintained that he had.

“It’s a pity you don’t ride, Lula.  I understand that that’s one of the best preventives—­for gout.  I bought a horse last week that would just suit you—­an ideal woman’s horse.  He’s taken a couple of blue ribbons this summer.”

“I hope you will show him to us, Mr. Brent,” exclaimed Honora, in a spirit of kindness.

“Do you ride?” he demanded.

“I’m devoted to it,” she declared.

It was true.  For many weeks that spring, on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings, she had gone up from Rivington to Harvey’s Riding Academy, near Central Park.  Thus she had acquired the elements of the equestrian art, and incidentally aroused the enthusiasm of a riding-master.