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.
“I can't get over how well you look in that gown, Lula,” declared Mrs. Dallam, as they went out to dinner. “Trixy, what does she remind you of?”
“Cleopatra,” cried Warry Trowbridge, with an attempt to be gallant.
“Eternal vigilance,” said Mr. Brent, and they sat down amidst the laughter, Lily Dallam declaring that he was horrid, and Mrs. Chandos giving him a look of tender reproach. But he turned abruptly to Honora, who was on his other side.
“Where did you drop down from, Mrs. Spence?” he inquired.
“Why do you take it for granted that I have dropped?” she asked sweetly.
He looked at her queerly for a moment, and then burst out laughing.