He stooped down suddenly to her face to kiss her, but she turned her face in time to receive the caress on the cheek.

“The panacea!” she said.

He laughed a little, boyishly, as he stood looking down at her.

“Sometimes I can’t make you out,” he said.  “You’ve changed a good deal since I married you.”

She was silent.  But the thought occurred to her that a complete absorption in commercialism was not developing.

“If you can manage it, Honora,” he added with an attempt at lightness, “I wish you’d have a little dinner soon, and ask Brent.  Will you?”

“Nothing,” she replied, “would give me greater pleasure.”

He patted her on the shoulder and left the room whistling.  But she sat where she was until the maid came in to pull the curtains and turn on the lights, reminding her that guests were expected.

.....................

Although the circle of Mr. Brent’s friends could not be said to include any university or college presidents, it was, however, both catholic and wide.  He was hail fellow, indeed, with jockeys and financiers, great ladies and municipal statesmen of good Irish stock.  He was a lion who roamed at large over a great variety of hunting grounds, some of which it would be snobbish to mention; for many reasons he preferred Quicksands:  a man-eater, a woman-eater, and extraordinarily popular, nevertheless.  Many ladies, so it was reported, had tried to tame him:  some of them he had cheerfully gobbled up, and others after the briefest of inspections, disdainfully thrust aside with his paw.

This instinct for lion taming, which the most spirited of women possess, is, by the way, almost inexplicable to the great majority of the male sex.  Honora had it, as must have been guessed.  But however our faith in her may be justified by the ridiculous ease of her previous conquests, we cannot regard without trepidation her entrance into the arena with this particular and widely renowned king of beasts.  Innocence pitted against sophistry and wile and might.

Two of the preliminary contests we have already witnessed.  Others, more or less similar, followed during a period of two months or more.  Nothing inducing the excessive wagging of tongues,—­Honora saw to that, although Mrs. Chandos kindly took the trouble to warn our heroine,—­a scene for which there is unfortunately no space in this chronicle; an entirely amicable, almost honeyed scene, in Honora’s boudoir.  Nor can a complete picture of life at Quicksands be undertaken.  Multiply Mrs. Dallam’s dinner-party by one hundred, Howard Silence’s Sundays at the Club by twenty, and one has a very fair idea of it.  It was not precisely intellectual.  “Happy,” says Montesquieu, “the people whose annals are blank in history’s book.”  Let us leave it at that.

Late one afternoon in August Honora was riding homeward along the ocean road.  The fragrant marshes that bordered it were a vivid green under the slanting rays of the sun, and she was gazing across them at the breakers crashing on the beach beyond.  Trixton Brent was beside her.