collection of huge yellow fungi sprawling over the ground. A few of the
inevitable tortured cedars were around it. Between two of the larger
buildings was wedged a room dedicated to the worship of Bacchus, to-day
like a narrow river-gorge at flood time jammed with tree-trunks--some of
them, let us say, water-logged--and all grinding together with an
intolerable noise like a battle. If you happened to be passing the
windows, certain more or less intelligible sounds might separate
themselves from the bedlam.

"Four to five on Quicksands!"

"That stock isn't worth a d--n!"

"She's gone to South Dakota."

Honora, however, is an heretic, as we know. Without going definitely into
her reasons, these festivals had gradually become distasteful to her.
Perhaps it would be fairer to look at them through the eyes of Lily
Dallam, who was in her element on such days, and regarded them as the
most innocent and enjoyable of occasions, and perhaps they were.

The view from the veranda, at least, appealed to our heroine's artistic
sense. The marshes in the middle distance, the shimmering sea beyond, and
the polo field laid down like a vast green carpet in the foreground;
while the players, in white breeches and bright shirts, on the agile
little horses that darted hither and thither across the turf lent an
added touch of colour and movement to the scene. Amongst them, Trixton
Brent most frequently caught the eye and held it. Once Honora perceived
him flying the length of the field, madly pursued, his mallet poised
lightly, his shirt bulging in the wind, his close-cropped head bereft of