“Howard,” said Honora that evening, “I've been going through houses to-day.”

“Houses!” he exclaimed, looking up from his newspaper.

“And I've been most fortunate,” she continued. “I found one that Mrs. Farnham built—she is now Mrs. Rindge. It is just finished, and so attractive. If I'd looked until doomsday I couldn't have done any better.”

“But great Scott!” he ejaculated, “what put the notion of a town house into your head?”

“Isn't it high time to be thinking of the winter?” she asked. “It's nearly the end of September.”

He was inarticulate for a few moments, in an evident desperate attempt to rally his forces to meet such an unforeseen attack.

“Who said anything about going to town?” he inquired.

“Now, Howard, don't be foolish,” she replied. “Surely you didn't expect to stay in Quicksands all winter?”

“Foolish!” he repeated, and added inconsequently, “why not?”

“Because,” said Honora, calmly, “I have a life to lead as well as you.”

“But you weren't satisfied until you got to Quicksands, and now you want to leave it.”

“I didn't bargain to stay here in the winter,” she declared. “You know very well that if you were unfortunate it would be different. But you're quite prosperous.”

“How do you know?” he demanded unguardedly.

“Quicksands tells me,” she said. “It is—a little humiliating not to have more of your confidence, and to hear such things from outsiders.”

“You never seemed interested in business matters,” he answered uneasily.

“I should be,” said Honora, “if you would only take the trouble to tell me about them.” She stood up. “Howard, can't you see that it is making us—grow apart? If you won't tell me about yourself and what you're doing, you drive me to other interests. I am your wife, and I ought to know—I want to know. The reason I don't understand is because you've never taken the trouble to teach me. I wish to lead my own life, it is true—to develop. I don't want to be like these other women down here. I—I was made for something better. I'm sure of it. But I wish my life to be joined to yours, too—and it doesn't seem to be. And sometimes—I'm afraid I can't explain it to you—sometimes I feel lonely and frightened, as though I might do something desperate. And I don't know what's going to become of me.”

He laid down his newspaper and stared at her helplessly, with the air of a man who suddenly finds himself at sea in a small boat without oars.

“Oh, you can't understand!” she cried. “I might have known you never could.”

He was, indeed, thoroughly perplexed and uncomfortable: unhappy might not be too strong a word. He got up awkwardly and put his hand on her arm. She did not respond. He drew her, limp and unresisting, down on the lounge beside him.

“For heaven's sake, what is the matter, Honora?” he faltered. “I—I thought we were happy. You were getting on all right, and seemed to be having a good time down here. You never said anything about—this.”

She turned her head and looked at him—a long, searching look with widened eyes.

“No,” she said slowly, “you don't understand. I suppose it isn't your fault.”

“I'll try,” he said, “I don't like to see you—upset like this. I'll do anything I can to make you happy.”

“Not things, not—not toys,” Trixton Brent's expression involuntarily coming to her lips. “Oh, can't you see I'm not that kind of a woman? I don't want to be bought. I want you, whatever you are, if you are. I want to be saved. Take care of me—see a little more of me—be a little interested in what I think. God gave me a mind, and—other men have discovered it. You don't know, you can't know, what temptations you subject me to. It isn't right, Howard. And oh, it is humiliating not to be able to interest one's husband.”

“But you do interest me,” he protested.

She shook her head.

“Not so much as your business,” she said; “not nearly so much.”

“Perhaps I have been too absorbed,” he confessed. “One thing has followed another. I didn't suspect that you felt this way. Come, I'll try to brace up.” He pressed her to him. “Don't feel badly. You're overwrought. You've exaggerated the situation, Honora. We'll go in on the eight o'clock train together and look at the house—although I'm afraid it's a little steep,” he added cautiously.

“I don't care anything about the house,” said Honora. “I don't want it.”

“There!” he said soothingly, “you'll feel differently in the morning. We'll go and look at it, anyway.”

Her quick ear, however, detected an undertone which, if not precisely resentment, was akin to the vexation that an elderly gentleman might be justified in feeling who has taken the same walk for twenty years, and is one day struck by a falling brick. Howard had not thought of consulting her in regard to remaining all winter in Quicksands. And, although he might not realize it himself, if he should consent to go to New York one reason for his acquiescence would be that the country in winter offered a more or less favourable atmosphere for the recurrence of similar unpleasant and unaccountable domestic convulsions. Business demands peace at any price. And the ultimatum at Rivington, though delivered in so different a manner, recurred to him.

The morning sunlight, as is well known, is a dispeller of moods, a disintegrator of the night's fantasies. It awoke Honora at what for her was a comparatively early hour, and as she dressed rapidly she heard her husband whistling in his room. It is idle to speculate on the phenomenon taking place within her, and it may merely be remarked in passing that she possessed a quality which, in a man, leads to a career and fame. Unimagined numbers of America's women possess that quality—a fact that is becoming more and more apparent every day.

“Why, Honora!” Howard exclaimed, as she appeared at the breakfast table. “What's happened to you?”

“Have you forgotten already,” she asked, smilingly, as she poured out her coffee, “that we are going to town together?”

He readjusted his newspaper against the carafe.

“How much do you think Mrs. Farnham—or Mrs. Rindge—is worth?” he asked.

“I'm sure I don't know,” she replied.

“Old Marshall left her five million dollars.”

“What has that to do with it?” inquired Honora.

“She isn't going to rent, especially in that part of town, for nothing.”

“Wouldn't it be wiser, Howard, to wait and see the house. You know you proposed it yourself, and it won't take very much of your time.”

He returned to a perusal of the financial column, but his eye from time to time wandered from the sheet to his wife, who was reading her letters.

“Howard,” she said, “I feel dreadfully about Mrs. Holt. We haven't been at Silverdale all summer. Here's a note from her saying she'll be in town to-morrow for the Charities Conference, asking me to come to see her at her hotel. I think I'll go to Silverdale a little later.”

“Why don't you?” he said. “It would do you good.”

“And you?” she asked.

“My only day of the week is Sunday, Honora. You know that. And I wouldn't spend another day at Silverdale if they gave me a deed to the property,” he declared.

On the train, when Howard had returned from the smoking car and they were about to disembark at Long Island City, they encountered Mr. Trixton Brent.

“Whither away?” he cried in apparent astonishment. “Up at dawn, and the eight o'clock train!”

“We were going to look at a house,” explained Honora, “and Howard has no other time.”

“I'll go, too,” declared Mr. Brent, promptly. “You mightn't think me a judge of houses, but I am. I've lived in so many bad ones that I know a good one when I see it now.”

“Honora has got a wild notion into her head that I'm going to take the Farnham house,” said Howard, smiling. There, on the deck of the ferryboat, in the flooding sunlight, the idea seemed to give him amusement. With the morning light Pharaoh must have hardened his heart.

“Well, perhaps you are,” said Mr. Brent, conveying to Honora his delight in the situation by a scarcely perceptible wink. “I shouldn't like to take the other end of the bet. Why shouldn't you? You're fat and healthy and making money faster than you can gather it in.”

Howard coughed, and laughed a little, uncomfortably. Trixton Brent was not a man to offend.

“Honora has got that delusion, too,” he replied. He steeled himself in his usual manner for the ordeal to come by smoking a cigarette, for the arrival of such a powerful ally on his wife's side lent a different aspect to the situation.

Honora, during this colloquy, was silent. She was a little uncomfortable, and pretended not to see Mr. Brent's wink.

“Incredible as it may seem, I expected to have my automobile ready this morning,” he observed; “we might have gone in that. It landed three days ago, but so far it has failed to do anything but fire off revolver shots.”

“Oh, I do wish you had it,” said Honora, relieved by the change of subject. “To drive in one must be such a wonderful sensation.”

“I'll let you know when it stops shooting up the garage and consents to move out,” he said. “I'll take you down to Quicksands in it.”

The prospective arrival of Mr. Brent's French motor car, which was looked for daily, had indeed been one of the chief topics of conversation at Quicksands that summer. He could appear at no lunch or dinner party without being subjected to a shower of questions as to where it was, and as many as half a dozen different women among whom was Mrs. Chandos—declared that he had promised to bring them out from New York on the occasion of its triumphal entry into the colony. Honora, needless to say, had betrayed no curiosity.

Neither Mr. Shorter nor Mr. Cuthbert had appeared at the real estate office when, at a little after nine o'clock; Honora asked for the keys. And an office boy, perched on the box seat of the carriage, drove with them to the house and opened the wrought-iron gate that guarded the entrance, and the massive front door. Honora had a sense of unreality as they entered, and told herself it was obviously ridiculous that she should aspire to such a dwelling. Yesterday, under the spell of that somewhat adventurous excursion with Mr. Cuthbert, she had pictured herself as installed. He had contrived somehow to give her a sense of intimacy with the people who lived thereabout—his own friends.

Perhaps it was her husband who was the disillusionizing note as he stood on the polished floor of the sunflooded drawing-room. Although bare of furniture, it was eloquent to Honora of a kind of taste not to be found at Quicksands: it carried her back, by undiscernible channels of thought, to the impression which, in her childhood, the Hanbury mansion had always made. Howard, in her present whimsical fancy, even seemed a little grotesque in such a setting. His inevitable pink shirt and obviously prosperous clothes made discord there, and she knew in this moment that he was appraising the house from a commercial standpoint. His comment confirmed her guess.

“If I were starting out to blow myself, or you, Honora,” he said, poking with his stick a marmouset of the carved stone mantel, “I'd get a little more for my money while I was about it.”

Honora did not reply. She looked out of the window instead.

“See here, old man,” said Trixton Brent, “I'm not a real estate dealer or an architect, but if I were in your place I'd take that carriage and hustle over to Jerry Shorter's as fast as I could and sign the lease.”

Howard looked at him in some surprise, as one who had learned that Trixton Brent's opinions were usually worth listening to. Characteristically, he did not like to display his ignorance.

“I know what you mean, Brent,” he replied, “and there may be something to the argument. It gives an idea of conservativeness and prosperity.”

“You've made a bull's-eye,” said Trixton Brent, succinctly.

“But—but I'm not ready to begin on this scale,” objected Howard.

“Why,” cried Brent, with evident zest—for he was a man who enjoyed sport in all its forms, even to baiting the husbands of his friends,—“when I first set eyes on you, old fellow, I thought you knew a thing or two, and you've made a few turns since that confirmed the opinion. But I'm beginning to perceive that you have limitations. I could sit down here now, if there were any place to sit, and calculate how much living in this house would be worth to me in Wall Street.”

Honora, who had been listening uneasily, knew that a shrewder or more disturbing argument could not have been used on her husband; and it came from Trixton Brent—to Howard at least—ex cathedra. She was filled with a sense of shame, which was due not solely to the fact that she was a little conscience-stricken because of her innocent complicity, nor that her husband did not resent an obvious attempt of a high-handed man to browbeat him; but also to the feeling that the character of the discussion had in some strange way degraded the house itself. Why was it that everything she touched seemed to become contaminated?

“There's no use staying any longer,” she said. “Howard doesn't like it.”

“I didn't say so,” he interrupted. “There's something about the place that grows on you. If I felt I could afford it—”

“At any rate,” declared Honora, trying to control her voice, “I've decided, now I've seen it a second time, that I don't want it. I only wished him to look at it,” she added, scornfully aware that she was taking up the cudgels in his behalf. But she could not bring herself, in Brent's presence, to declare that the argument of the rent seemed decisive.

Her exasperation was somewhat increased by the expression on Trixton Brent's face, which plainly declared that he deemed her last remarks to be the quintessence of tactics; and he obstinately refused, as they went down the stairs to the street, to regard the matter as closed.

“I'll take him down town in the Elevated,” he said, as he put her into the carriage. “The first round's a draw.”

She directed the driver to the ferry again, and went back to Quicksands. Several times during the day she was on the point of telephoning Brent not to try to persuade Howard to rent the house, and once she even got so far as to take down the receiver. But when she reflected, it seemed an impossible thing to do. At four o'clock she herself was called to the telephone by Mr. Cray, a confidential clerk in Howard's office, who informed her that her husband had been obliged to leave town suddenly on business, and would not be home that night.

“Didn't he say where he was going?” asked Honora.

“He didn't even tell me, Mrs. Spence,” Cray replied, “and Mr. Dallam doesn't know.”

“Oh, dear,” said Honora, “I hope he realizes that people are coming for dinner to-morrow evening.”

“I'm positive, from what he said, that he'll be back some time to-morrow,” Cray reassured her.

She refused an invitation to dine out, and retired shortly after her own dinner with a novel so distracting that she gradually regained an equable frame of mind. The uneasiness, the vague fear of the future, wore away, and she slept peacefully. In the morning, however; she found on her breakfast tray a note from Trixton Brent.

Her first feeling after reading it was one of relief that he had not mentioned the house. He had written from a New York club, asking her to lunch with him at Delmonico's that day and drive home in the motor. No answer was required: if she did not appear at one o'clock, he would know she couldn't come.

Honora took the eleven o'clock train, which gave her an hour after she arrived in New York to do as she pleased. Her first idea, as she stood for a moment amidst the clamour of the traffic in front of the ferry house, was to call on Mrs. Holt at that lady's hotel; and then she remembered that the Charities Conference began at eleven, and decided to pay a visit to Madame Dumond, who made a specialty of importing novelties in dress. Her costume for the prospective excursion in the automobile had cost Honora some thought that morning. As the day was cool, she had brought along an ulster that was irreproachable. But how about the hat and veil?

Madame Dumond was enchanted. She had them both,—she had landed with them only last week. She tried them on Honora, and stood back with her hands clasped in an ecstasy she did not attempt to hide. What a satisfaction to sell things to Mrs. Spence! Some ladies she could mention would look like frights in them, but Madame Spence had 'de la race'. She could wear anything that was chic. The hat and veil, said Madame, with a simper, were sixty dollars.

“Sixty dollars!” exclaimed Honora.

“Ah, madame, what would you?” Novelties were novelties, the United States Custom authorities robbers.

Having attended to these important details, Honora drove to the restaurant in her hansom cab, the blood coursing pleasantly in her veins. The autumn air sparkled, and New York was showing signs of animation. She glanced furtively into the little mirror at the side. Her veil was grey, and with the hat gave her somewhat the air of a religieuse, an aspect heightened by the perfect oval of her face; and something akin to a religious thrill ran through her.

The automobile, with its brass and varnish shining in the sunlight, was waiting a little way up the street, and the first person Honora met in the vestibule of Delmonico's was Lula Chandos. She was, as usual, elaborately dressed, and gave one the impression of being lost, so anxiously was she scanning the face of every new arrival.

“Oh, my dear,” she cried, staring hard at the hat and the veil, “have you seen Clara Trowbridge anywhere?”

A certain pity possessed Honora as she shook her head.

“She was in town this morning,” continued Mrs. Chandos, “and I was sure she was coming here to lunch. Trixy just drove up a moment ago in his new car. Did you see it?”

Honora's pity turned into a definite contempt.

“I saw an automobile as I came in,” she said, but the brevity of her reply seemed to have no effect upon Mrs. Chandos.

“There he is now, at the entrance to the cafe,” she exclaimed.

There, indeed, was Trixton Brent, staring at them from the end of the hall, and making no attempt to approach them.

“I think I'll go into the dressing-room and leave my coat,” said Honora, outwardly calm but inwardly desperate. Fortunately, Lula made no attempt to follow her.

“You're a dream in that veil, my dear,” Mrs. Chandos called after her. “Don't forget that we're all dining with you to-night in Quicksands.”

Once in the dressing-room, Honora felt like locking the doors and jumping out of the window. She gave her coat to the maid, rearranged her hair without any apparent reason, and was leisurely putting on her hat again, and wondering what she would do next, when Mrs. Kame appeared.

“Trixy asked me to get you,” she explained. “Mr. Grainger and I are going to lunch with you.”

“How nice!” said Honora, with such a distinct emphasis of relief that Mrs. Kame looked at her queerly.

“What a fool Trixy was, with all his experience, to get mixed up with that Chandos woman,” that lady remarked as they passed through the hallway. “She's like molasses—one can never get her off. Lucky thing he found Cecil and me here. There's your persistent friend, Trixy,” she added, when they were seated. “Really, this is pathetic, when an invitation to lunch and a drive in your car would have made her so happy.”

Honora looked around and beheld, indeed, Mrs. Chandos and two other Quicksands women, Mrs. Randall and Mrs. Barclay, at a table in the corner of the room.

“Where's Bessie to-day, Cecil—or do you know?” demanded Mrs. Kame, after an amused glance at Brent, who had not deigned to answer her. “I promised to go to Newport with her at the end of the week, but I haven't been able to find her.”

“Cecil doesn't know,” said Trixton Brent. “The police have been looking for him for a fortnight. Where the deuce have you been, Cecil?”

“To the Adirondacks,” replied Mr Grainger, gravely.

This explanation, which seemed entirely plausible to Honora, appeared to afford great amusement to Brent, and even to Mrs. Kame.

“When did you come to life?” demanded Brent.

“Yesterday,” said Mr. Grainger, quite as solemnly as before.

Mrs. Kame glanced curiously at Honora, and laughed again.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Trixy,” she said.

“Why?” he asked innocently. “There's nothing wrong in going to the Adirondacks—is there, Cecil?”

“No,” said Mr. Grainger, blinking rapidly.

“The Adirondacks,” declared Mrs. Kame, “have now become classic.”

“By the way,” observed Mr. Grainger, “I believe Bessie's in town to-day at a charity pow-wow, reading a paper. I've half a mind to go over and listen to it. The white dove of peace—and all that kind of thing.”

“You'd go to sleep and spoil it all,” said Brent.

“But you can't, Cecil!” cried Mrs. Kame. “Don't you remember we're going to Westchester to the Faunces' to spend the night and play bridge? And we promised to arrive early.”

“That's so, by George,” said Mr. Grainger, and he drank the rest of his whiskey-and-soda.

“I'll tell you what I'll do, if Mrs. Spence is willing,” suggested Brent. “If you start right after lunch, I'll take you out. We'll have plenty of time,” he added to Honora, “to get back to Quicksands for dinner.”

“Are you sure?” she asked anxiously. “I have people for dinner tonight.”

“Oh, lots of time,” declared Mrs. Kame. “Trixy's car is some unheard-of horse-power. It's only twenty-five miles to the Faunces', and you'll be back at the ferry by half-past four.”

“Easily,” said Trixton Brent.