Since Lilly had been enthroned at Richard's side, the slumbering cavalry officer in him had been awakened to such lively consciousness, his passion for native horse-breeding had swelled to such vast proportions that he would not have dreamed of missing a single race. Although he never betted, his pockets were stuffed with crumpled tips; chances and pedigrees constituted his sole topic of conversation, and Lilly, who took not the least interest in it all, willingly lent him her undivided attention. One morning, on studying the account of the previous day's race in her paper, the following passage attracted her notice: "Among the charming representatives of the world which knows no _ennui_, was the impressive beauty who for some time past has permitted glimpses of herself everywhere, and who still radiates the discreet atmosphere of the _haute volée_, which, it is rumoured, was once her native element. She favors violet, and in accordance with a famous precedent, she might be dubbed '_la dame aux violettes_.' We congratulate ourselves upon the appearance of this new star, who will only add to the reputation of our metropolitan life." "Who can that be?" thought Lilly, slightly envious, and passed in review the beautiful women she had admired the day before. Then suddenly the blood rushed to her head. Her glance sought the Redfern costume, which she had not yet hung away, and was lying across the back of a chair. It was two years old, but so wonderfully well made that it could compete with the new creations of the spring. Since this was the only suit of the sort she possessed--Richard must be spared unnecessary expense--she had worn it several times in succession. "Yes, she no longer doubted--the item referred to her and no other. Her first thought was: "How pleased Richard will be." She, too, was pleased. Mrs. Laue's boldest prophecies seemed about to be fulfilled. She was growing famous. She actually figured in the papers. But that feeling of dread! That enigmatic, senseless dread which forever crouched in the bottom of her heart, and crept to the surface at the very moment a new event led her on a stage further toward grandeur and happiness. Since she had stepped into the world at Richard's side, she had encountered nothing but what awakened gladness, pride and hope. Everybody respected and flattered her. Scorn of herself, self-torturing thoughts, had passed away, giving place to a quiet appreciation of her own value in the presence of strangers. But that stupid, dull dread never left her. It would not be silenced. Earlier in the afternoon than usual, Richard came down the street beaming and openly waving the paper up to her. After they had embraced ten times and read the passage in the paper twice as often, Richard turned taciturn and gloomy, folded his arms like Napoleon, and paced up and down the room with short, sharp steps. You could see ambition seething in his brain. The bell rang. Little Mrs. Sievekingk was announced.