Honora, indeed, had not perjured herself. Only the hypercritical, when

Mrs. Dallam was dressed, had the impression of a performed miracle. She

was the most finished of finished products. Her complexion was high and

(be it added) natural, her hair wonderfully 'onduled', and she had withal

the sweetest and kindest of smiles and the most engaging laughter in the

world. It was impossible not to love her.

"Howard," she cried, when a little later they were seated at the table,

"how mean of you to have kept Honora in a dead and alive place like

Rivington all these years! I think she's an angel to have stood it. Men

are beyond me. Do you know what an attractive wife you've got? I've just

been telling her that there wasn't a woman at my tea who compared with

her, and the men were crazy about her."

"That's the reason I live down there," proclaimed Howard, as he finished

his first glass of champagne.

"Honora," demanded Mrs. Dallam, ignoring his bravado, "why don't you take

a house at Quicksands? You'd love it, and you'd look simply divine in a

bathing suit. Why don't you come down?"

"Ask Howard," replied Honora, demurely.

"Well, Lily, I'll own up I have been considering it a little," that

gentleman admitted with gravity. "But I haven't decided anything. There

are certain drawbacks--"

"Drawbacks!" exclaimed Mrs. Dallam. "Drawbacks at Quicksands! I'd like to

know what they are. Don't be silly, Howard. You get more for your money

there than any place I know." Suddenly the light of an inspiration came

into her eyes, and she turned to her husband. "Sid, the Alfred Fern house

is for rent, isn't it?"

"I think it must be, Lily," replied Mr. Dallam.

"Sometimes I believe I'm losing my mind," declared Mrs. Dallam. "What an

imbecile I was not to think of it! It's a dear, Honora, not five minutes

from the Club, with the sweetest furniture, and they just finished it

last fall. It would be positively wicked not to take it, Howard. They

couldn't have failed more opportunely. I'm sorry for Alfred, but I always

thought Louise Fern a little snob. Sid, you must see Alfred down town the

first thing in the morning and ask him what's the least he'll rent it

for. Tell him I wish to know."

"But--my dear Lily--began Mr. Dallam apologetically.

"There!" complained his wife, "you're always raising objections to my

most charming and sensible plans. You act as though you wanted Honora and

Howard to stay in Rivington."

"My dear Lily!" he protested again. And words failing him, he sought by a

gesture to disclaim such a sinister motive for inaction.

"What harm can it do?" she asked plaintively. "Howard doesn't have to

rent the house, although it would be a sin if he didn't. Find out the

rent in the morning, Sid, and we'll all four go down on Sunday and look

at it, and lunch at the Quicksands Club. I'm sure I can get out of my

engagement at Laura Dean's--this is so important. What do you say,

Honora?"

"I think it would be delightful," said Honora.

CHAPTER V

QUICKSANDS

To convey any adequate idea of the community familiarly known as

Quicksands a cinematograph were necessary. With a pen we can only

approximate the appearance of the shifting grains at any one time. Some

households there were, indeed, which maintained a precarious though

seemingly miraculous footing on the surface, or near it, going under for

mere brief periods, only to rise again and flaunt men-servants in the

face of Providence.

There were real tragedies, too, although a casual visitor would never

have guessed it. For tragedies sink, and that is the end of them. The

cinematograph, to be sure, would reveal one from time to time, coming

like a shadow across an endless feast, and gone again in a flash. Such

was what might appropriately be called the episode of the Alfred Ferns.

After three years of married life they had come, they had rented; the

market had gone up, they had bought and built--upon the sands. The

ancient farmhouse which had stood on the site had been torn down as

unsuited to a higher civilization, although the great elms which had

sheltered it had been left standing, in grave contrast to the twisted

cedars and stunted oaks so much in evidence round about.

The Ferns--or rather little Mrs. Fern--had had taste, and the new house

reflected it. As an indication of the quality of imagination possessed by

the owners, the place was called "The Brackens." There was a long porch

on the side of the ocean, but a view of the water was shut off from it by

a hedge which, during the successive ownerships of the adjoining

property, had attained a height of twelve feet. There was a little toy

greenhouse connecting with the porch (an "economy" indulged in when the

market had begun to go the wrong way for Mr. Fern). Exile, although

unpleasant, was sometimes found necessary at Quicksands, and even

effective.

Above all things, however, if one is describing Quicksands, one must not

be depressing. That is the unforgiveable sin there. Hence we must touch

upon these tragedies lightly.

If, after walking through the entrance in the hedge that separated the

Brackens from the main road, you turned to the left and followed a

driveway newly laid out between young poplars, you came to a mass of

cedars. Behind these was hidden the stable. There were four stalls, all

replete with brass trimmings, and a box, and the carriage-house was made

large enough for the break which Mr. Fern had been getting ready to buy

when he had been forced, so unexpectedly, to change his mind.

If the world had been searched, perhaps, no greater contrast to Rivington

could have been found than this delightful colony of quicksands, full of

life and motion and colour, where everybody was beautifully dressed and

enjoying themselves. For a whole week after her instalment Honora was in

a continual state of excitement and anticipation, and the sound of wheels

and voices on the highroad beyond the hedge sent her peeping to her

curtains a dozen times a day. The waking hours, instead of burdens, were

so many fleeting joys. In the morning she awoke to breathe a new,

perplexing, and delicious perfume--the salt sea breeze stirring her

curtains: later, she was on the gay, yellow-ochre beach with Lily Dallam,

making new acquaintances; and presently stepping, with a quiver of fear

akin to delight, into the restless, limitless blue water that stretched

southward under a milky haze: luncheon somewhere, more new acquaintances,

and then, perhaps, in Lily's light wood victoria to meet the train of

trains. For at half-past five the little station, forlorn all day long in

the midst of the twisted cedars that grew out of the heated sand, assumed

an air of gayety and animation. Vehicles of all sorts drew up in the open

space before it, wagonettes, phaetons, victorias, high wheeled hackney

carts, and low Hempstead carts: women in white summer gowns and veils

compared notes, or shouted invitations to dinner from carriage to

carriage. The engine rolled in with a great cloud of dust, the horses

danced, the husbands and the overnight guests, grimy and brandishing

evening newspapers, poured out of the special car where they had sat in

arm-chairs and talked stocks all the way from Long Island City. Some were

driven home, it is true; some to the beach, and others to the Quicksands

Club, where they continued their discussions over whiskey-and-sodas

until it was time to have a cocktail and dress for dinner.

Then came the memorable evening when Lily Dallam gave a dinner in honour

of Honora, her real introduction to Quicksands. It was characteristic of

Lily that her touch made the desert bloom. Three years before Quicksands

had gasped to hear that the Sidney Dallams had bought the Faraday house

--or rather what remained of it.

"We got it for nothing," Lily explained triumphantly on the occasion of

Honora's first admiring view. "Nobody would look at it, my dear."

It must have been this first price, undoubtedly, that appealed to Sidney

Dallam, model for all husbands: to Sidney, who had had as much of an idea

of buying in Quicksands as of acquiring a Scotch shooting box. The

"Faraday place" had belonged to the middle ages, as time is reckoned in

Quicksands, and had lain deserted for years, chiefly on account of its

lugubrious and funereal aspect. It was on a corner. Two "for rent" signs

had fallen successively from the overgrown hedge: some fifty feet back

from the road, hidden by undergrowth and in the tenebrous shades of huge

larches and cedars, stood a hideous, two-storied house with a mansard

roof, once painted dark red.

The magical transformation of all this into a sunny, smiling, white villa

with red-striped awnings and well-kept lawns and just enough shade had

done no little towards giving to Lily Dallam that ascendency which she

had acquired with such startling rapidity in the community. When Honora

and Howard drove up to the door in the deepening twilight, every window

was a yellow, blazing square, and above the sound of voices rose a waltz

from "Lady Emmeline" played with vigour on the piano. Lily Dallam greeted

Honora in the little room which (for some unexplained reason) was known

as the library, pressed into service at dinner parties as the ladies'

dressing room.

"My dear, how sweet you look in that coral! I've been so lucky to-night,"

she added in Honora's ear; "I've actually got Trixy Brent for you."

Our heroine was conscious of a pleasurable palpitation as she walked with

her hostess across the little entry to the door of the drawing-room,

where her eyes encountered an inviting and vivacious scene. Some ten or a

dozen guests, laughing and talking gayly, filled the spaces between the

furniture; an upright piano was embedded in a corner, and the lady who

had just executed the waltz had swung around on the stool, and was

smiling up at a man who stood beside her with his hand in his pocket. She

was a decided brunette, neither tall nor short, with a suggestion of

plumpness.

"That's Lula Chandos," explained Lily Dallam in her usual staccato,

following Honora's gaze, "at the piano, in ashes of roses. She's stopped

mourning for her husband. Trixy told her to-night she'd discarded the

sackcloth and kept the ashes. He's awfully clever. I don't wonder that

she's crazy about him, do you? He's standing beside her."

Honora took a good look at the famous Trixy, who resembled a certain type

of military Englishman. He had close-cropped hair and a close-cropped

mustache; and his grey eyes, as they rested amusedly on Mrs. Chandos,

seemed to have in them the light of mockery.

"Trixy!" cried his hostess, threading her way with considerable skill

across the room and dragging Honora after her, "Trixy, I want to

introduce you to Mrs. Spence. Now aren't you glad you came!"

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.

"Because you are sitting next to Lucifer," he said. "It's kind of me to

warn you, isn't it?"

"It wasn't necessary," replied Honora. "And besides, as a dinner

companion, I imagine Lucifer couldn't be improved on."

He laughed again.

"As a dinner companion!" he repeated. "So you would limit Lucifer to

dinners? That's rather a severe punishment, since we're neighbours."

"How delightful to have Lucifer as one's neighbour," said Honora,

avoiding his eyes. "Of course I've been brought up to believe that he was

always next door, so to speak, but I've never--had any proof of it until

now."

"Proof!" echoed Mr. Brent. "Has my reputation gone before me?"

"I smell the brimstone," said Honora.

He derived, apparently, infinite amusement from this remark likewise.

"If I had known I was to have the honour of sitting here, I should have

used another perfume," he replied. "I have several."

It was Honora's turn to laugh.

"They are probably for--commercial transactions, not for ladies," she

retorted. "We are notoriously fond of brimstone, if it is not too strong.

A suspicion of it."

Her colour was high, and she was surprised at her own vivacity. It seemed

strange that she should be holding her own in this manner with the

renowned Trixton Brent. No wonder, after four years of Rivington, that

she tingled with an unwonted excitement.

At this point Mr. Brent's eye fell upon Howard, who was explaining

something to Mrs. Trowbridge at the far end of the table.

"What's your husband like?" he demanded abruptly.

Honora was a little taken aback, but recovered sufficiently to retort:

"You'd hardly expect me to give you an unprejudiced judgment."

"That's true," he agreed significantly.

"He's everything," added Honora, "that is to be expected in a husband."

"Which isn't much, in these days," declared Mr. Brent.

"On the contrary," said Honora.

"What I should like to know is why you came to Quicksands," said Mr.

Brent.

"For a little excitement," she replied. "So far, I have not been

disappointed. But why do you ask that question?" she demanded, with a

slight uneasiness. "Why did you come here?"

"Oh," he said, "you must remember that I'm--Lucifer, a citizen of the

world, at home anywhere, a sort of 'freebooter. I'm not here all the

time--but that's no reflection on Quicksands. May I make a bet with you,

Mrs. Spence?"

"What about?"

"That you won't stay in Quicksands more than six months," he answered.

"Why do you say that?" she asked curiously.

He shook his head.

"My experience with your sex," he declared enigmatically, "has not been a

slight one."

"Trixy!" interrupted Mrs. Chandos at this juncture, from his other side,

"Warry Trowbridge won't tell me whether to sell my Consolidated Potteries

stock."

"Because he doesn't know," said Mr. Brent, laconically, and readdressed

himself to Honora, who had, however, caught a glimpse of Mrs. Chandos'

face.

"Don't you think it's time for you to talk to Mrs. Chandos?" she asked.

"What for?"

"Well, for one reason, it is customary, out of consideration for the

hostess, to assist in turning the table."

"Lily doesn't care," he said.

"How about Mrs. Chandos? I have an idea that she does care."

He made a gesture of indifference.

"And how about me?" Honora continued. "Perhaps--I'd like to talk to Mr.

Dallam."

"Have you ever tried it?" he demanded.

Over her shoulder she flashed back at him a glance which he did not

return. She had never, to tell the truth, given her husband's partner

much consideration. He had existed in her mind solely as an obliging

shopkeeper with whom Lily had unlimited credit, and who handed her over

the counter such things as she desired. And to-night, in contrast to

Trixton Brent, Sidney Dallam suggested the counter more than ever before.

He was about five and forty, small, neatly made, with little hands and

feet; fast growing bald, and what hair remained to him was a jet black.

His suavity of manner and anxious desire to give one just the topic that

pleased had always irritated Honora.

Good shopkeepers are not supposed to have any tastes, predilections, or

desires of their own, and it was therefore with no little surprise that,

after many haphazard attempts, Honora discovered Mr, Dallam to be

possessed by one all-absorbing weakness. She had fallen in love, she

remarked, with little Sid on the beach, and Sidney Dallam suddenly became

transfigured. Was she fond of children? Honora coloured a little, and

said "yes." He confided to her, with an astonishing degree of feeling,

that it had been the regret of his life he had not had more children.

Nobody, he implied, who came to his house had ever exhibited the proper

interest in Sid.

"Sometimes," he said, leaning towards her confidentially, "I slip

upstairs for a little peep at him after dinner."

"Oh," cried Honora, "if you're going to-night mayn't I go with you? I'd

love to see him in bed."

"Of course I'll take you," said Sidney Dallam, and he looked at her so

gratefully that she coloured again.

"Honora," said Lily Dallam, when the women were back in the drawing-room,

"what did you do to Sid? You had him beaming--and he hates dinner

parties."

"We were talking about children," replied Honora, innocently.

"Children!"

"Yes," said Honora, "and your husband has promised to take me up to the

nursery."

"And did you talk to Trixy about children, too?" cried Lily, laughing,

with a mischievous glance at Mrs. Chandos.

"Is he interested in them?" asked Honora.

"You dear!" cried Lily, "you'll be the death of me. Lula, Honora wants to

know whether Trixy is interested in children."

Mrs. Chandos, in the act of lighting a cigarette, smiled sweetly.

"Apparently he is," she said.

"It's time he were, if he's ever going to be," said Honora, just as

sweetly.

Everybody laughed but Mrs. Chandos, who began to betray an intense

interest in some old lace in the corner of the room.

"I bought it for nothing, my dear," said Mrs. Dallam, but she pinched

Honora's arm delightedly. "How wicked of you!" she whispered, "but it

serves her right."

In the midst of the discussion of clothes and house rents and other

people's possessions, interspersed with anecdotes of a kind that was new

to Honora, Sidney Dallam appeared at the door and beckoned to her.

"How silly of you, Sid!" exclaimed his wife; "of course she doesn't want

to go."

"Indeed I do," protested Honora, rising with alacrity and following her

host up the stairs. At the end of a hallway a nurse, who had been reading

beside a lamp, got up smilingly and led the way on tiptoe into the

nursery, turning on a shaded electric light. Honora bent over the crib.

The child lay, as children will, with his little yellow head resting on

his arm. But in a moment, as she stood gazing at him, he turned and

opened his eyes and smiled at her, and she stooped and kissed him.

"Where's Daddy?" he demanded.

"We've waked him!" said Honora, remorsefully.

"Daddy," said the child, "tell me a story."

The nurse looked at Dallam reproachfully, as her duty demanded, and yet

she smiled. The noise of laughter reached them from below.

"I didn't have any to-night," the child pleaded.

"I got home late," Dallam explained to Honora, and, looking at the nurse,

pleaded in his turn; "just one."

"Just a tiny one," said the child.

"It's against all rules, Mr. Dallam," said the nurse, "but--he's been

very lonesome to-day."

Dallam sat down on one side of him, Honora on the other.

"Will you go to sleep right away if I do, Sid?" he asked.

The child shut his eyes very tight.

"Like that," he promised.

It was not the Sidney Dallam of the counting-room who told that story,

and Honora listened with strange sensations which she did not attempt to

define.

"I used to be fond of that one when I was a youngster," he explained

apologetically to her as they went out, and little Sid had settled

himself obediently on the pillow once more. "It was when I dreamed," he

added, "of less prosaic occupations than the stock market."

Sidney Dallam had dreamed!

Although Lily Dallam had declared that to leave her house before midnight

was to insult her, it was half-past eleven when Honora and her husband

reached home. He halted smilingly in her doorway as she took off her wrap

and laid it over a chair.

"Well, Honora," he asked, "how do you like--the whirl of fashion?"

She turned to him with one of those rapid and bewildering movements that

sometimes characterized her, and put her arms on his shoulders.

"What a dear old stay-at-home you were, Howard," she said. "I wonder what

would have happened to you if I hadn't rescued you in the nick of time!

Own up that you like--a little variety in life."

Being a man, he qualified his approval.

"I didn't have a bad time," he admitted. "I had a talk with Brent after

dinner, and I think I've got him interested in a little scheme. It's a

strange thing that Sid Dallam was never able to do any business with him.

If I can put this through, coming to Quicksands will have been worth

while." He paused a moment, and added: "Brent seems to have taken quite a

shine to you, Honora."

She dropped her arms, and going over to her dressing table, unclasped a

pin on the front of her gown.

"I imagine," she answered, in an indifferent tone, "that he acts so with

every new woman he meets."

Howard remained for a while in the doorway, seemingly about to speak.

Then he turned on his heel, and she heard him go into his own room.

Far into the night she lay awake, the various incidents of the evening,

like magic lantern views, thrown with bewildering rapidity on the screen

of her mind. At last she was launched into life, and the days of her

isolation gone by forever. She was in the centre of things. And yet

--well, nothing could be perfect. Perhaps she demanded too much. Once or

twice, in the intimate and somewhat uproarious badinage that had been

tossed back and forth in the drawing-room after dinner, her delicacy had

been offended: an air of revelry had prevailed, enhanced by the arrival

of whiskey-and-soda on a tray. And at the time she had been caught up by

an excitement in the grip of which she still found herself. She had been

aware, as she tried to talk to Warren Trowbridge, of Trixton Brent's

glance, and of a certain hostility from Mrs. Chandos that caused her now

to grow warm with a kind of shame when she thought of it. But she could

not deny that this man had for her a fascination. There was in him an

insolent sense of power, of scarcely veiled contempt for the company in

which he found himself. And she asked herself, in this mood of

introspection, whether a little of his contempt for Lily Dallam's guests

had not been communicated from him to her.

When she had risen to leave, he had followed her into the entry. She

recalled him vividly as he had stood before her then, a cigar in one hand

and a lighted match in the other, his eyes fixed upon her with a

singularly disquieting look that was tinged, however, with amusement.

"I'm coming to see you," he announced.

"Do be careful," she had cried, "you'll burn yourself!"

"That," he answered, tossing away the match, "is to be expected."

She laughed nervously.

"Good night," he added, "and remember my bet."

What could he have meant when he had declared that she would not remain

in Quicksands?

CHAPTER VI

GAD AND MENI

There was an orthodox place of worship at Quicksands, a temple not merely

opened up for an hour or so on Sunday mornings to be shut tight during

the remainder of the week although it was thronged with devotees on the

Sabbath. This temple, of course, was the Quicksands Club. Howard Spence

was quite orthodox; and, like some of our Puritan forefathers, did not

even come home to the midday meal on the first day of the week. But a

certain instinct of protest and of nonconformity which may have been

remarked in our heroine sent her to St. Andrews-by-the-Sea--by no means

so well attended as the house of Gad and Meni. She walked home in a

pleasantly contemplative state of mind through a field of daisies, and

had just arrived at the hedge m front of the Brackens when the sound of

hoofs behind her caused her to turn. Mr. Trixton Brent, very firmly

astride of a restive, flea-bitten polo pony, surveyed her amusedly.

"Where have you been?" said he.

"To church," replied Honora, demurely.

"Such virtue is unheard of in Quicksands."

"It isn't virtue," said Honora.

"I had my doubts about that, too," he declared.

"What is it, then?" she asked laughingly, wondering why he had such a

faculty of stirring her excitement and interest.

"Dissatisfaction," was his prompt reply.

"I don't see why you say that," she protested.

"I'm prepared to make my wager definite," said he. "The odds are a

thoroughbred horse against a personally knitted worsted waistcoat that

you won't stay in Quicksands six months."

"I wish you wouldn't talk nonsense," said Honora, "and besides, I can't

knit."

There was a short silence during which he didn't relax his disconcerting

stare.

"Won't you come in?" she asked. "I'm sorry Howard isn't home."

"I'm not," he said promptly. "Can't you come over to my box for lunch?

I've asked Lula Chandos and Warry Trowbridge."

It was not without appropriateness that Trixton Brent called his house

the "Box." It was square, with no pretensions to architecture whatever,

with a porch running all the way around it. And it was literally filled

with the relics of the man's physical prowess cups for games of all

descriptions, heads and skins from the Bitter Roots to Bengal, and masks

and brushes from England. To Honora there was an irresistible and

mysterious fascination in all these trophies, each suggesting a finished

--and some perhaps a cruel--performance of the man himself. The cups were

polished until they beat back the light like mirrors, and the glossy bear

and tiger skins gave no hint of dying agonies.

Mr. Brent's method with women, Honora observed, more resembled the noble

sport of Isaac Walton than that of Nimrod, but she could not deny that

this element of cruelty was one of his fascinations. It was very evident

to a feminine observer, for instance, that Mrs. Chandos was engaged in a

breathless and altogether desperate struggle with the slow but inevitable

and appalling Nemesis of a body and character that would not harmonize.

If her figure grew stout, what was to become of her charm as an 'enfant

gate'? Her host not only perceived, but apparently derived great

enjoyment out of the drama of this contest. From self-indulgence to

self-denial--even though inspired by terror--is a far cry. And Trixton

Brent had evidently prepared his menu with a satanic purpose.

"What! No entree, Lula? I had that sauce especially for you."

"Oh, Trixy, did you really? How sweet of you!" And her liquid eyes

regarded, with an almost equal affection, first the master and then the

dish. "I'll take a little," she said weakly; "it's so bad for my gout."

"What," asked Trixton Brent, flashing an amused glance at Honora, "are

the symptoms of gout, Lula? I hear a great deal about that trouble these

days, but it seems to affect every one differently."

Mrs. Chandos grew very red, but Warry Trowbridge saved her.

"It's a swelling," he said innocently.

Brent threw back his head and laughed.

"You haven't got it anyway, Warry," he cried.

Mr. Trowbridge, who resembled a lean and greying Irish terrier,

maintained that he had.

"It's a pity you don't ride, Lula. I understand that that's one of the

best preventives--for gout. I bought a horse last week that would just

suit you--an ideal woman's horse. He's taken a couple of blue ribbons

this summer."

"I hope you will show him to us, Mr. Brent," exclaimed Honora, in a

spirit of kindness.

"Do you ride?" he demanded.

"I'm devoted to it," she declared.

It was true. For many weeks that spring, on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday

mornings, she had gone up from Rivington to Harvey's Riding Academy, near

Central Park. Thus she had acquired the elements of the equestrian art,

and incidentally aroused the enthusiasm of a riding-master.

After Mrs. Chandos had smoked three of the cigarettes which her host

specially imported from Egypt, she declared, with no superabundance of

enthusiasm, that she was ready to go and see what Trixy had in the

"stables." In spite of that lady's somewhat obvious impatience, Honora

insisted upon admiring everything from the monogram of coloured sands so

deftly woven on the white in the coach house, to the hunters and polo

ponies in their rows of boxes. At last Vercingetorix, the latest

acquisition of which Brent had spoken, was uncovered and trotted around

the ring.

"I'm sorry, Trixy, but I've really got to leave," said Mrs. Chandos. "And

I'm in such a predicament! I promised Fanny Darlington I'd go over there,

and it's eight miles, and both my horses are lame."

Brent turned to his coachman.

"Put a pair in the victoria right away and drive Mrs. Chandos to Mrs.

Darlington's," he said.

She looked at him, and her lip quivered.

"You always were the soul of generosity, Trixy, but why the victoria?"

"My dear Lula," he replied, "if there's any other carriage you prefer--?"

Honora did not hear the answer, which at any rate was scarcely audible.

She moved away, and her eyes continued to follow Vercingetorix as he

trotted about the tan-bark after a groom. And presently she was aware

that Trixton Brent was standing beside her.

"What do you think of him?" he asked.

"He's adorable," declared Honora. Would you like to try him?"

"Oh--might I? Sometime?"

"Why not to-day--now?" he said. "I'll send him over to your house and

have your saddle put on him."

Before Honora could protest Mrs. Chandos came forward.

"It's awfully sweet of you, Trixy, to offer to send me to Fanny's, but

Warry says he will drive me over. Good-by, my dear," she added, holding

out her hand to Honora.

"I hope you enjoy your ride."

Mr. Trowbridge's phaeton was brought up, Brent helped Mrs. Chandos in,

and stood for a moment gazing after her. Amusement was still in his eyes

as he turned to Honora.

"Poor Lula!" he said. "Most women could have done it better than that

--couldn't they?"

"I think you were horrid to her," exclaimed Honora, indignantly. "It

wouldn't have hurt you to drive her to Mrs. Darlington's."

It did not occur to her that her rebuke implied a familiarity at which

they had swiftly but imperceptibly arrived.

"Oh, yes, it would hurt me," said he. "I'd rather spend a day in jail

than drive with Lula in that frame of mind. Tender reproaches, and all

that sort of thing, you know although I can't believe you ever indulge in

them. Don't," he added.

In spite of the fact that she was up in arms for her sex, Honora smiled.

"Do you know," she said slowly, "I'm beginning to think you are a brute."

"That's encouraging," he replied.

"And fickle."

"Still more encouraging. Most men are fickle. We're predatory animals."

"It's just as well that I am warned," said Honora. She raised her parasol

and picked up her skirts and shot him a look. Although he did not

resemble in feature the great if unscrupulous Emperor of the French, he

reminded her now of a picture she had once seen of Napoleon and a lady;

the lady obviously in a little flutter under the Emperor's scrutiny. The

picture had suggested a probable future for the lady.

"How long will it take you to dress?" he asked.

"To dress for what?"

"To ride with me."

"I'm not going to ride with you," she said, and experienced a tingle of

satisfaction from his surprise.

"Why not?" he demanded.

"In the first place, because I don't want to; and in the second, because

I'm expecting Lily Dallam."

"Lily never keeps an engagement," he said.

"That's no reason why I shouldn't," Honora answered.

"I'm beginning to think you're deuced clever," said he.

"How unfortunate for me!" she exclaimed.

He laughed, although it was plain that he was obviously put out. Honora

was still smiling.

"Deuced clever," he repeated.

"An experienced moth," suggested Honora; "perhaps one that has been

singed a little, once or twice. Good-by--I've enjoyed myself immensely."

She glanced back at him as she walked down the path to the roadway. He

was still standing where she had left him, his feet slightly apart, his

hands in the pockets of his riding breeches, looking after her.

Her announcement of an engagement with Mrs. Dallam had been, to put it

politely, fiction. She spent the rest of the afternoon writing letters

home, pausing at periods to look out of the window. Occasionally it

appeared that her reflections were amusing. At seven o'clock Howard

arrived, flushed and tired after his day of rest.

"By the way, Honora, I saw Trixy Brent at the Club, and he said you

wouldn't go riding with him."

"Do you call him Trixy to his face?" she asked.

"What? No--but everyone calls him Trixy. What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing," she replied. "Only--the habit every one has in Quicksands of

speaking of people they don't know well by their nicknames seems rather

bad taste."

"I thought you liked Quicksands," he retorted. "You weren't happy until

you got down here."

"It's infinitely better than Rivington," she said.

"I suppose," he remarked, with a little irritation unusual in him, "that

you'll be wanting to go to Newport next."

"Perhaps," said Honora, and resumed her letter. He fidgeted about the

room for a while, ordered a cocktail, and lighted a cigarette.

"Look here," he began presently, "I wish you'd be decent to Brent. He's a

pretty good fellow, and he's in with James Wing and that crowd of big

financiers, and he seems to have taken a shine to me probably because

he's heard of that copper deal I put through this spring."

Honora thrust back her writing pad, turned in her chair, and faced him.

"How 'decent' do you wish me to be?" she inquired.

"How decent?" he repeated.

"Yes."

He regarded her uneasily, took the cocktail which the maid offered him,

drank it, and laid down the glass.

He had had before, in the presence of his wife, this vague feeling of

having passed boundaries invisible to him. In her eyes was a curious

smile that lacked mirth, in her voice a dispassionate note that added to

his bewilderment.

"What do you mean, Honora?"

"I know it's too much to expect of a man to be as solicitous about his

wife as he is about his business," she replied. "Otherwise he would

hesitate before he threw her into the arms of Mr. Trixton Brent. I warn

you that he is very attractive to women."

"Hang it," said Howard, "I can't see what you're driving at. I'm not

throwing you into his arms. I'm merely asking you to be friendly with

him. It means a good deal to me--to both of us. And besides, you can take

care of yourself. You're not the sort of woman to play the fool."

"One never can tell," said Honora, "what may happen. Suppose I fell in

love with him?"

"Don't talk nonsense," he said.

"I'm not so sure," she answered, meditatively, "that it is nonsense. It

would be quite easy to fall in love with him. Easier than you imagine.

curiously. Would you care?" she added.

"Care!" he cried; "of course I'd care. What kind of rot are you talking?"

"Why would you care?"

"Why? What a darned idiotic question--"

"It's not really so idiotic as you think it is," she said. "Suppose I

allowed Mr. Brent to make love to me, as he's very willing to do, would

you be sufficiently interested to compete."

"To what?"

"To compete."

"But--but we're married."

She laid her hand upon her knee and glanced down at it.

"It never occurred to me until lately," she said, "how absurd is the

belief men still hold in these days that a wedding-ring absolves them

forever from any effort on their part to retain their wives' affections.

They regard the ring very much as a ball and chain, or a hobble to

prevent the women from running away, that they may catch them whenever

they may desire--which isn't often. Am I not right?"

He snapped his cigarette case.

"Darn it, Honora, you're getting too deep for me!" he exclaimed. "You

never liked those, Browning women down at Rivington, but if this isn't

browning I'm hanged if I know what it is. An attack of nerves, perhaps.

They tell me that women go all to pieces nowadays over nothing at all."

"That's just it," she agreed, "nothing at all!"

"I thought as much," he replied, eager to seize this opportunity of

ending a conversation that had neither head nor tail, and yet was

marvellously uncomfortable. "There! be a good girl, and forget it."

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.

"I wish you wouldn't stare at me so," she said, turning to him suddenly;

"it is embarrassing."

"How did you know I was looking at you?" he asked.

"I felt it."

He drew his horse a little nearer.

"Sometimes you're positively uncanny," she added.

He laughed.

"I rather like that castles-in-Spain expression you wore," he declared.

"Castles in Spain?"

"Or in some other place where the real estate is more valuable. Certainly

not in Quicksands."

"You are uncanny," proclaimed Honora, with conviction.

"I told you you wouldn't like Quicksands," said he.

"I've never said I didn't like it," she replied. "I can't see why you

assume that I don't."

"You're ambitious," he said. "Not that I think it a fault, when it's more

or less warranted. Your thrown away here, and you know it."

She made him a bow from the saddle.

"I have not been without a reward, at least," she answered, and looked at

him.

"I have," said he.

Honora smiled.

"I'm going to be your good angel, and help you get out of it," he

continued.

"Get out of what?"

"Quicksands."

"Do you think I'm in danger of sinking?" she asked. "And is it impossible

for me to get out alone, if I wished to?"

"It will be easier with my help," he answered. "You're clever enough to

realize that--Honora."

She was silent awhile.

"You say the most extraordinary things," she remarked presently.

"Sometimes I think they are almost--"

"Indelicate," he supplied.

She coloured.

"Yes, indelicate."

"You can't forgive me for sweeping away your rose-coloured cloud of

romance," he declared, laughing. "There are spades in the pack, however

much you may wish to ignore 'em. You know very well you don't like these

Quicksands people. They grate on your finer sensibilities, and all that

sort of thing. Come, now, isn't it so?"

She coloured again, and put her horse to the trot.

"Onwards and upwards," he cried. "Veni, vidi, vici, ascendi."

"It seems to me," she laughed, "that so much education is thrown away on

the stock market."

"Whether you will be any happier higher up," he went on, "God knows.

Sometimes I think you ought to go back to the Arcadia you came from. Did

you pick out Spence for an embryo lord of high finance?"

"My excuse is," replied Honora, "that I was very young, and I hadn't met

you."

Whether the lion has judged our heroine with astuteness, or done her a

little less than justice, must be left to the reader. Apparently he is

accepting her gentle lashings with a meek enjoyment. He assisted her to

alight at her own door, sent the horses home, and offered to come in and

give her a lesson in a delightful game that was to do its share in the

disintegration of the old and tiresome order of things--bridge. The lion,

it will be seen, was self-sacrificing even to the extent of double dummy.

He had picked up the game with characteristic aptitude abroad

--Quicksands had yet to learn it.

Howard Spence entered in the midst of the lesson.

"Hello, Brent," said he, genially, "you may be interested to know I got

that little matter through without a hitch to-day."

"I continue to marvel at you," said the lion, and made it no trumps.

Since this is a veracious history, and since we have wandered so far from

home and amidst such strange, if brilliant scenes, it must be confessed

that Honora, three days earlier, had entered a certain shop in New York

and inquired for a book on bridge. Yes, said the clerk, he had such a

treatise, it had arrived from England a week before. She kept it looked

up in her drawer, and studied it in the mornings with a pack of cards

before her.

Given the proper amount of spur, anything in reason can be mastered.

A MODERN CHRONICLE

By Winston Churchill

Volume 4.

CHAPTER VII

OF CERTAIN DELICATE MATTERS

In the religious cult of Gad and Meni, practised with such enthusiasm at

Quicksands, the Saints' days were polo days, and the chief of all

festivals the occasion of the match with the Banbury Hunt Club

--Quicksands's greatest rival. Rival for more reasons than one, reasons

too delicate to tell. Long, long ago there appeared in Punch a cartoon of

Lord Beaconsfield executing that most difficult of performances, an egg

dance. We shall be fortunate indeed if we get to the end of this chapter

without breaking an egg!

Our pen fails us in a description of that festival of festivals, the

Banbury one, which took place early in September. We should have to go

back to Babylon and the days of King Nebuchadnezzar. (Who turns out to

have been only a regent, by the way, and his name is now said to be

spelled rezzar). How give an idea of the libations poured out to Gad and

the shekels laid aside for Meni in the Quicksands Temple?

Honora privately thought that building ugly, and it reminded her of a

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

a cap, regardless of the havoc and confusion behind him. He played,

indeed, with the cocksureness and individuality one might have expected;

and Honora, forgetting at moments the disturbing elements by which she

was surrounded, followed him with fascination. Occasionally his name

rippled from one end of the crowded veranda to the other, and she

experienced a curious and uncomfortable sensation when she heard it in

the mouths of these strangers.

From time to time she found herself watching them furtively, comparing

them unconsciously with her Quicksands friends. Some of them she had

remarked before, at contests of a minor importance, and they seemed to

her to possess a certain distinction that was indefinable. They had come

to-day from many mysterious (and therefore delightful) places which

Honora knew only by name, and some had driven the twenty-five odd miles

from the bunting community of Banbury in coaches and even those new and

marvellous importations--French automobiles. When the game had ended, and

Lily Dallam was cajoling the club steward to set her tea-table at once, a

group of these visitors halted on the lawn, talking and laughing gayly.

Two of the younger men Honora recognized with a start, but for a moment

she could not place them--until suddenly she remembered that she had seen

them on her wedding trip at Hot Springs. The one who lisped was Mr.

Cuthbert, familiarly known as "Toots": the other, taller and slimmer and

paler, was Jimmy Wing. A third, the regularity of whose features made one

wonder at the perfection which nature could attain when she chose, who

had a certain Gallic appearance (and who, if the truth be told, might

have reminded an impartial eye of a slightly animated wax clothing

model), turned, stared, hesitated, and bowed to Lily Dallam.

"That's Reggie Farwel, who did my house in town," she whispered to

Honora. "He's never been near me since it was finished. He's utterly

ruined."

Honora was silent. She tried not to look at the group, in which there

were two women of very attractive appearance, and another man.

"Those people are so superior," Mrs. Dallam continued.

"I'm not surprised at Elsie Shorter. Ever since she married Jerry she's

stuck to the Graingers closer than a sister. That's Cecil Grainger, my

dear, the man who looks as though he were going to fall asleep any

moment. But to think of Abby Kame acting that way! Isn't it ridiculous,

Clara?" she cried, appealing to Mrs. Trowbridge. "They say that Cecil

Grainger never leaves her side. I knew her when she first married John

Kame, the dearest, simplest man that ever was. He was twenty years older

than Abby, and made his money in leather. She took the first steamer

after his funeral and an apartment in a Roman palace for the winter. As

soon as she decently could she made for England. The English will put up

with anybody who has a few million dollars, and I don't deny that Abby's

good-looking, and clever in her way. But it's absurd for her to come over

here and act as though we didn't exist. She needn't be afraid that I'll

speak to her. They say she became intimate with Bessie Grainger through

charities. One of your friend Mrs. Holt's charities, by the way, Honora.

Where are you going?"

For Honora had risen.

"I think I'll go home, Lily," she said; "I'm rather tired."

"Home!" exclaimed Mrs. Dallam. "What can you be thinking of, my dear?

Nobody ever goes home after the Banbury match. The fun has just begun,

and we're all to stay here for dinner and dance afterwards. And Trixy

Brent promised me faithfully he'd' come here for tea, as soon as he

dressed."

"I really can't stay, Lily. I--I don't feel up to it," said Honora,

desperately.

"And you can't know how I counted on you! You look perfectly fresh, my

dear."

Honora felt an overwhelming desire to hide herself, to be alone. In spite

of the cries of protest that followed her and drew--she thought--an

unnecessary and disagreeable attention to her departure, she threaded her

way among groups of people who stared after her. Her colour was high, her

heart beating painfully; a vague sense of rebellion and shame within her

for which she did not try to account. Rather than run the gantlet of the

crowded veranda she stepped out on the lawn, and there encountered

Trixton Brent. He had, in an incredibly brief time, changed from his polo

clothes to flannels and a straw hat. He looked at her and whistled, and

barred her passage.

"Hello!" he cried. "Hoity-toity! Where are we going in such a hurry?"

"Home," answered Honora, a little breathlessly, and added for his

deception, "the game's over, isn't it? I'm glad you won."

Mr. Brent, however, continued to gaze at her penetratingly, and she

avoided his eyes.

"But why are you rushing off like a flushed partridge?--no reference to

your complexion. Has there been a row?"

"Oh, no--I was just--tired. Please let me go."

"Being your good angel--or physician, as you choose--I have a

prescription for that kind of weariness," he said smilingly.

"I--anticipated such an attack. That's why I got into my clothes in such

record time."

"I don't know what you mean," faltered Honora. "You are always imagining

all sorts of things about me that aren't true."

"As a matter of fact," said Brent, "I have promised faithfully to do a

favor for certain friends of mine who have been clamouring to be

presented to you."

"I can't--to-day--Mr. Brent," she cried. "I really don't feel

like-meeting people. I told Lily Dallam I was going home."

The group, however, which had been the object of that lady's remarks was

already moving towards them--with the exception of Mrs. Shorter and Mr.

Farwell, who had left it. They greeted Mr. Brent with great cordiality.

"Mrs. Kame," he said, "let me introduce Mrs. Spence. And Mrs. Spence, Mr.

Grainger, Mr. Wing, and Mr. Cuthbert. Mrs. Spence was just going home."

"Home!" echoed Mrs. Kame, "I thought Quicksands people never went home

after a victory."

"I've scarcely been here long enough," replied Honora, "to have acquired

all of the Quicksands habits."

"Oh," said Mrs. Kame, and looked at Honora again. "Wasn't that Mrs.

Dallam you were with? I used to know her, years ago, but she doesn't

speak to me any more."

"Perhaps she thinks you've forgotten her," said Honora.

"It would be impossible to forget Mrs. Dallam," declared Mrs. Kame.

"So I should have thought," said Honora.

Trixton Brent laughed, and Mrs. Kame, too, after a moment's hesitation.

She laid her hand familiarly on Mr. Brent's arm.

"I haven't seen you all summer, Trixy," she said. "I hear you've been

here at Quicksands, stewing in that little packing-case of yours. Aren't

you coming into our steeplechase at Banbury.

"I believe you went to school with my sister," said young Mr. Wing.

"Oh, yes," answered Honora, somewhat surprised. "I caught a glimpse of

her once, in New York. I hope you will remember me to her."

"And I've seen you before," proclaimed Mr. Cuthbert, "but I can't for the

life of me think where."

Honora did not enlighten him.

"I shan't forget, at any rate, Mrs. Spence," said Cecil Grainger, who had

not taken his eyes from her, except to blink.

Mrs. Kame saved her the embarrassment of replying.

"Can't we go somewhere and play bridge," Trixy demanded.

"I'd be delighted to offer you the hospitality of my packing-case, as you

call it," said Brent, "but the dining-room ceiling fell down Wednesday,

and I'm having the others bolstered up as a mere matter of precaution."

"I suppose we couldn't get a fourth, anyway. Neither Jimmy nor Toots

plays. It's so stupid of them not to learn."

"Mrs. Spence might, help us out," suggested Brent.

"Do you play?" exclaimed Mrs. Kame, in a voice of mixed incredulity and

hope.

"Play!" cried Mr. Brent, "she can teach Jerry Shorter or the Duchess of

Taunton."

"The Duchess cheats," announced Cecil Grainger. "I caught her at it at

Cannes--"

"Indeed, I don't play very well," Honora interrupted him, "and besides--"

"Suppose we go over to Mrs. Spence's house," Trixton Brent suggested.

"I'm sure she'd like to have us wouldn't you, Mrs. Spence?"

"What a brilliant idea, Trixy!" exclaimed Mrs. Kame.

"I should be delighted," said Honora, somewhat weakly. An impulse made

her glance toward the veranda, and for a fraction of a second she caught

the eye of Lily Dallam, who turned again to Mrs. Chandos.

"I say," said Mr. Cuthbert, "I don't play--but I hope I may come along."

"And me too," chimed in Mr. Wing.

Honora, not free from a certain uneasiness of conscience, led the way to

the Brackens, flanked by Mr. Grainger and Mr. Cuthbert. Her frame of mind

was not an ideal one for a hostess; she was put out with Trixton Brent,

and she could not help wondering whether these people would have made

themselves so free with another house. When tea was over, however, and

the bridge had begun, her spirits rose; or rather, a new and strange

excitement took possession of her that was not wholly due to the novel

and revolutionary experience of playing, for money--and winning. Her star

being in the ascendant, as we may perceive. She had drawn Mrs. Kame for a

partner, and the satisfaction and graciousness of that lady visibly grew

as the score mounted: even the skill of Trixton Brent could not triumph

over the hands which the two ladies held.

In the intervals the talk wandered into regions unfamiliar to Honora, and

she had a sense that her own horizon was being enlarged. A new vista, at

least, had been cut: possibilities became probabilities. Even when Mrs.

Kame chose to ridicule Quicksands Honora was silent, so keenly did she

feel the justice of her guest's remarks; and the implication was that

Honora did not belong there. When train time arrived and they were about

to climb into Trixton Brent's omnibus--for which he had obligingly

telephoned--Mrs. Kame took Honora's band in both her own. Some good

thing, after all, could come out of this community--such was the

triumphant discovery the lady's manner implied.

"My dear, don't you ever come to Banbury?" she asked. I'd be so glad to

see you. I must get Trixy to drive you over some day for lunch. We've had

such a good time, and Cecil didn't fall asleep once. Quite a record. You

saved our lives, really."

"Are you going to be in town this winter?" Mr. Grainger inquired.

"I,--I suppose so--replied Honora, for the moment taken aback, although I

haven't decided just where."

"I shall look forward to seeing you," he said.

This hope was expressed even more fervently by Mr. Cuthbert and Mr. Wing,

and the whole party waved her a cordial good-by as the carriage turned

the circle. Trixton Brent, with his hands in his pockets, stood facing

her under the electric light on the porch.

"Well?" he said.

"Well," repeated Honora.

"Nice people," said Mr. Brent.

Honora bridled.

"You invited them here," she said. "I must say I think it, was rather

--presumptuous. And you've got me into no end of trouble with Lily

Dallam."

He laughed as he held open the screen door for her.

"I wonder whether a good angel was ever so abused," he said.

"A good angel," she repeated, smiling at him in spite of herself.

"Or knight-errant," he continued, "whichever you choose. You want to get

out of Quicksands--I'm trying to make it easy for you. Before you leave

you have to arrange some place to go. Before we are off with the old we'd

better be on with the new."

"Oh, please don't say such things," she cried, "they're so--so sordid."

She looked searchingly into his face. "Do I really seem to you like

that?"

Her lip was quivering, and she was still under the influence of the

excitement which the visit of these people had brought about.

"No," said Brent--coming very close to her, "no, you don't. That's the

extraordinary part of it. The trouble with you, Honora, is that you want

something badly very badly--and you haven't yet found out what it is.

"And you won't find out," he added, "until you have tried everything.

Therefore am I a good Samaritan, or something like it."

She looked at him with startled eyes, breathing deeply.

"I wonder if that is so!" she said, in a low voice.

"Not until you have had and broken every toy in the shop," he declared.

"Out of the mouths of men of the world occasionally issues wisdom. I'm

going to help you get the toys. Don't you think I'm kind?"

"And isn't this philanthropic mood a little new to you?" she asked.

"I thought I had exhausted all novelties," he answered. "Perhaps that's

the reason why I enjoy it."

She turned and walked slowly into the drawing-room, halted, and stood

staring at the heap of gold and yellow bills that Mr. Grainger had

deposited in front of the place where she had sat. Her sensation was akin

to sickness. She reached out with a kind of shuddering fascination and

touched the gold.

"I think," she said, speaking rather to herself than to Brent, "I'll give

it to charity."

"If it is possible to combine a meritorious act with good policy, I

should suggest giving it to Mrs. Grainger for the relief of oppressed

working girls," he said.

Honora started.

"I wonder why Howard doesn't come she exclaimed, looking at the clock.

"Probably because he is holding nothing but full hands and flushes,"

hazarded Mr. Brent. "Might I propose myself for dinner?"

"When so many people are clamouring for you?" she asked.

"Even so," he said.

"I think I'll telephone to the Club," said Honora, and left the room.

It was some time before her husband responded to the call; and then he

explained that if Honora didn't object, he was going to a man's dinner in

a private room. The statement was not unusual.

"But, Howard," she said, I--I wanted you particularly to-night."

"I thought you were going to dine with Lily Dallam. She told me you were.

Are you alone?"

"Mr. Brent is here. He brought over some Banbury people to play bridge.

They've gone."

"Oh, Brent will amuse you," he replied. "I didn't know you were going to

be home, and I've promised these men. I'll come back early."

She hung up the receiver thoughtfully, paused a moment, and went back to

the drawing-room. Brent looked up.

"Well," he said, "was I right?"

"You seem always to be right," Honora, sighed.

After dinner they sat in the screened part of the porch which Mrs. Fern

had arranged very cleverly as an outside room. Brent had put a rug over

Honora's knees, for the ocean breath that stirred the leaves was cold.

Across the darkness fragments of dance music drifted fitfully from the

Club, and died away; and at intervals, when the embers of his cigar

flared up, she caught sight of her companion's face.

She found him difficult to understand. There are certain rules of thumb

in every art, no doubt,--even in that most perilous one of lion-taming.

But here was a baffling, individual lion. She liked him best, she told

herself, when he purred platonically, but she could by no means be sure

that his subjection was complete. Sometimes he had scratched her in his

play. And however natural it is to desire a lion for one's friend, to be

eaten is both uncomfortable and inglorious.

"That's, a remarkable husband of yours," he said at length.

"I shouldn't have said that you were a particularly good judge of

husbands," she retorted, after a moment of surprise.

He acknowledged with a laugh the justice of this observation.

"I stand corrected. He is by no means a remarkable husband. Permit me to

say he is a remarkable man."

"What makes you think so?" asked Honora, considerably disturbed.

"Because he induced you to marry him, for one thing," said Brent. "Of

course he got you before you knew what you were worth, but we must give

him credit for discovery and foresight."

"Perhaps," Honora could not resist replying, "perhaps he didn't know what

he was getting."

"That's probably true," Brent assented, "or he'd be sitting here now,

where I am, instead of playing poker. Although there is something in

matrimony that takes the bloom off the peach."

"I think that's a horrid, cynical remark," said Honora.

"Well," he said, "we speak according to our experiences--that is, if

we're not inclined to be hypocritical. Most women are."

Honora was silent. He had thrown away his cigar, and she could no longer

see his face. She wondered whither he was leading.

"How would you like to see your husband president of a trust company?" he

said suddenly.

"Howard--president of a trust company!" she exclaimed.

"Why not?" he demanded. And added enigmatically, "Smaller men have been."

"I wish you wouldn't joke about Howard," she said.

"How does the idea strike you?" he persisted. "Ambition satisfied

--temporarily; Quicksands a mile-stone on a back road; another toy to

break; husband a big man in the community, so far as the eye can see;

visiting list on Fifth Avenue, and all that sort of thing."

"I once told you you could be brutal," she said.

"You haven't told me what you thought of the idea."

"I wish you'd be sensible once in a while," she exclaimed.

"Howard Spence, President of the Orange Trust Company!" he recited. "I

suppose no man is a hero to his wife. Does it sound so incredible?"

It did. But Honora did not say so.

"What have I to do with it?" she asked, in pardonable doubt as to his

seriousness.

"Everything," answered Brent. "Women of your type usually have. They make

and mar without rhyme or reason--set business by the ears, alter the gold

reserve, disturb the balance of trade, and nobody ever suspects it. Old

James Wing and I have got a trust company organized, and the building up,

and the man Wing wanted for president backed out."

Honora sat up.

"Why--why did he 'back out'?" she demanded.

"He preferred to stay where he was, I suppose," replied Brent, in another

tone. "The point is that the place is empty. I'll give it to YOU."

"To me?"

"Certainly," said Brent, "I don't pretend to care anything about your

husband. He'll do as well as the next man. His duties are pretty well

--defined."

Again she was silent. But after a moment dropped back in her chair and

laughed uneasily.

"You're preposterous," she said; "I can't think why I let you talk to me

in this way."

CHAPTER VIII

OF MENTAL PROCESSES--FEMININE AND INSOLUBLE

Honora may be pardoned for finally ascribing to Mr. Brent's somewhat

sardonic sense of humour his remarks concerning her husband's elevation

to a conspicuous position in the world of finance. Taken in any other

sense than a joke, they were both insulting and degrading, and made her

face burn when she thought of them. After he had gone--or rather after

she had dismissed him--she took a book upstairs to wait for Howard, but

she could not read. At times she wished she had rebuked Trixton Brent

more forcibly, although he was not an easy person to rebuke; and again

she reflected that, had she taken the matter too seriously, she would

have laid herself open to his ridicule. The lion was often unwittingly

rough, and perhaps that was part of his fascination.

If Howard had come home before midnight it is possible that she might

have tried to sound him as to his relations with Trixton Brent. That

gentleman, she remembered, had the reputation of being a peculiarly

hardheaded business man, and it was of course absurd that he should offer

her husband a position merely to please her. And her imagination failed

her when she tried to think of Howard as the president of a trust

company. She was unable to picture him in a great executive office:

This tram of thought led her to the unaccustomed task of analyzing his

character. For the first time since her marriage comparisons crept into

her mind, and she awoke to the fact that he was not a masterful man--even

among men. For all his self-confidence-self-assurance, perhaps, would be

the better word--he was in reality a follower, not a leader; a gleaner.

He did not lack ideas. She tried to arrest the process in her brain when

she got as far as asking herself whether it might not be that he lacked

ideals. Since in business matters he never had taken her into his

confidence, and since she would not at any rate have understood such

things, she had no proof of such a failing. But one or two vague remarks

of Trixton Brent's which she recalled, and Howard's own request that she

should be friendly with Brent, reenforced her instinct on this point.

When she heard her husband's footstep on the porch, she put out her

light, but still lay thinking in the darkness. Her revelations had

arrived at the uncomfortable stage where they began to frighten her, and

with an effort she forced herself to turn to the other side of the

account. The hour was conducive to exaggerations. Perfection in husbands

was evidently a state not to be considered by any woman in her right

senses. He was more or less amenable, and he was prosperous, although

definite news of that prosperity never came from him--Quicksands always

knew of it first. An instance of this second-hand acquisition of

knowledge occurred the very next morning, when Lily Dallam, with much

dignity, walked into Honora's little sitting-room. There was no apparent

reason why dignity should not have been becoming to Lily Dallam, for she

was by no means an unimpressive-looking woman; but the assumption by her

of that quality always made her a little tragic or (if one chanced to be

in the humour--Honora was not) a little ridiculous.

"I suppose I have no pride," she said, as she halted within a few feet of

the doorway.

"Why, Lily!" exclaimed Honora, pushing back the chair from her desk, and

rising.

But Mrs. Dallam did not move.

"I suppose I have no pride," she repeated in a dead voice, "but I just

couldn't help coming over and giving you a chance."

"Giving me a chance?" said Honora.

"To explain--after the way you treated me at the polo game. If I hadn't

seen it with my own eyes, I shouldn't have believed it. I don't think I

should have trusted my own eyes," Mrs. Dallam went so far as to affirm,

"if Lula Chandos and Clara Trowbridge and others hadn't been there and

seen it too; I shouldn't have believed it."

Honora was finding penitence a little difficult. But her heart was kind.

"Do sit down, Lily," she begged. "If I've offended you in any way, I'm

exceedingly sorry--I am, really. You ought to know me well enough to

understand that I wouldn't do anything to hurt your feelings."

"And when I counted on you so, for my tea and dinner at the club!"

continued Mrs. Dallam. "There were other women dying to come. And you

said you had a headache, and were tired."

"I was," began Honora, fruitlessly.

"And you were so popular in Quicksands--everybody was crazy about you.

You were so sweet and so unspoiled. I might have known that it couldn't

last. And now, because Abby Kame and Cecil Grainger and--"

"Lily, please don't say such things!" Honora implored, revolted.

"Of course you won't be satisfied now with anything less than Banbury or

Newport. But you can't say I didn't warn you, Honora, that they are a

horrid, selfish, fast lot," Lily Dallam declared, and brushed her eyes

with her handkerchief. "I did love you."

"If you'll only be reasonable a moment, Lily,--" said Honora.

"Reasonable! I saw you with my own eyes. Five minutes after you left me

they all started for your house, and Lula Chandos said it was the

quickest cure of a headache she had ever seen."

"Lily," Honora began again, with exemplary patience, when people invite

themselves to one's house, it's a little difficult to refuse them

hospitality, isn't it?"

"Invite themselves?"

"Yes," replied Honora. "If I weren't--fond of you, too, I shouldn't make

this explanation. I was tired. I never felt less like entertaining

strangers. They wanted to play bridge, there wasn't a quiet spot in the

Club where they could go. They knew I was on my way home, and they

suggested my house. That is how it happened."

Mrs. Dallam was silent a moment.

"May I have one of Howard's cigarettes?" she asked, and added, after this

modest wish had been supplied, that's just like them. They're willing to

make use of anybody."

"I meant," said Honora, "to have gone to your house this morning and to

have explained how it happened."

Another brief silence, broken by Lily Dallam.

"Did you notice the skirt of that suit Abby Kame had on?", she asked.

"I'm sure she paid a fabulous price for it in Paris, and it's exactly

like one I ordered on Tuesday."

The details of the rest of this conversation may be omitted. That Honora

was forgiven, and Mrs. Dallam's spirits restored may be inferred from her

final remark.

"My dear, what do you think of Sid and Howard making twenty thousand

dollars apiece in Sassafras Copper? Isn't it too lovely! I'm having a

little architect make me plans for a conservatory. You know I've always

been dying for one--I don't see how I've lived all these years without

it."

Honora, after her friend had gone, sat down in one of the wicker chairs

on the porch. She had a very vague idea as to how much twenty thousand

dollars was, but she reflected that while they had lived in Rivington

Howard must have made many similar sums, of which she was unaware.

Gradually she began to realize, however, that her resentment of the lack

of confidence of her husband was by no means the only cause of the

feeling that took possession of and overwhelmed her. Something like it

she had experienced before: to-day her thoughts seemed to run through her

in pulsations, like waves of heat, and she wondered that she could have

controlled herself while listening to Lily Dallam.

Mrs. Dallam's reproaches presented themselves to Honora in new aspects.

She began to feel now, with an intensity that frightened her, distaste

and rebellion. It was intolerable that she should be called to account

for the people she chose to have in her house, that any sort of pressure

should be brought to bear on her to confine her friends to Quicksands.

Treason, heresy, disloyalty to the cult of that community--in reality

these, and not a breach of engagement, were the things of which she had

been accused. She saw now. She would not be tied to Quicksands--she would

not, she would not, she would not! She owed it no allegiance. Her very

soul rebelled at the thought, and cried out that she was made for

something better, something higher than the life she had been leading.

She would permit no one forcibly to restrict her horizon.

Just where and how this higher and better life was to be found Honora did

not know; but the belief of her childhood--that it existed somewhere--was

still intact. Her powers of analysis, we see, are only just budding, and

she did not and could not define the ideal existence which she so

unflaggingly sought. Of two of its attributes only she was sure--that it

was to be free from restraint and from odious comparisons. Honora's

development, it may be remarked, proceeds by the action of irritants, and

of late her protest against Quicksands and what it represented had driven

her to other books besides the treatise on bridge. The library she had

collected at Rivington she had brought with her, and was adding to it

from time to time. Its volumes are neither sufficiently extensive or

profound to enumerate.

Those who are more or less skilled in psychology may attempt to establish

a sequence between the events and reflections just related and the fact

that, one morning a fortnight later, Honora found herself driving

northward on Fifth Avenue in a hansom cab. She was in a pleasurable state

of adventurous excitement, comparable to that Columbus must have felt

when the shores of the Old World had disappeared below the horizon.

During the fortnight we have skipped Honora had been to town several

times, and had driven and walked through certain streets: inspiration,

courage, and decision had all arrived at once this morning, when at the

ferry she had given the cabman this particular address on Fifth Avenue.

The cab, with the jerking and thumping peculiar to hansoms, made a circle

and drew up at the curb. But even then a moment of irresolution

intervened, and she sat staring through the little side window at the

sign, T. Gerald Shorter, Real Estate, in neat gold letters over the

basement floor of the building.

"Here y'are, Miss," said the cabman through the hole in the roof.

Honora descended, and was almost at the flight of steps leading down to

the office door when a familiar figure appeared coming out of it. It was

that of Mr. Toots Cuthbert, arrayed in a faultless morning suit, his tie

delicately suggestive of falling leaves; and there dangled over his arm

the slenderest of walking sticks.

"Mrs. Spence!" he lisped, with every appearance of joy.

"Mr. Cuthbert!" she cried.

"Going in to see Jerry?" he inquired after he had put on his hat, nodding

up at the sign.

"I--that is, yes, I had thought of it," she answered.

"Town house?" said Mr. Cuthbert, with a knowing smile.

"I did have an idea of looking at houses," she confessed, somewhat taken

aback.

"I'm your man," announced Mr. Cuthbert.

"You!" exclaimed Honora, with an air of considering the lilies of the

field. But he did not seem to take offence.

"That's my business," he proclaimed,--"when in town. Jerry gives me a

commission. Come in and see him, while I get a list and some keys. By the

way, you wouldn't object to telling him you were a friend of mine, would

you?"

"Not at all," said Honora, laughing.

Mr. Shorter was a jovial gentleman in loose-fitting clothes, and he was

exceedingly glad to meet Mr. Cuthbert's friend.

"What kind of a house do you want, Mrs. Spence?" he asked. "Cuthbert

tells me this morning that the Whitworth house has come into the market.

You couldn't have a better location than that, on the Avenue between the

Cathedral and the Park."

"Oh," said Honora with a gasp, "that's much too expensive, I'm sure. And

there are only two of us." She hesitated, a little alarmed at the

rapidity with which affairs were proceeding, and added: "I ought to tell

you that I've not really decided to take a house. I wished to--to see

what there was to be had, and then I should have to consult my husband."

She gazed very seriously into Mr. Shorter's brown eyes, which became very

wide and serious, too. But all the time it seemed to her that other parts

of him were laughing.

"Husbands," he declared, "are kill-joys. What have they got to do with a

house--except to sleep in it? Now I haven't the pleasure of knowing you

as well as I hope to one of these days, Mrs. Spence--"

"Oh, I say!" interrupted Mr. Cuthbert.

"But I venture to predict, on a slight acquaintance," continued Mr.

Shorter, undisturbed, "that you will pick out the house you want, and

that your husband will move into it."

Honora could not help laughing. And Mr. Shorter leaned back in his

revolving chair and laughed, too, in so alarming a manner as to lead her

to fear he would fall over backwards. But Mr. Cuthbert, who did not

appear to perceive the humour in this conversation, extracted some keys

and several pasteboard slips from a rack in the corner. Suddenly Mr.

Shorter jerked himself upright again, and became very solemn.

"Where's my hat?" he demanded.

"What do you want with your hat?" Mr. Cuthbert inquired.

"Why, I'm going with you, of course," Mr. Shorter replied. "I've decided

to take a personal interest in this matter. You may regard my presence,

Cuthbert, as justified by an artistic passion for my profession. I should

never forgive myself if Mrs. Spence didn't get just the right house."

"Oh," said Mr. Cuthbert, "I'll manage that all right. I thought you were

going to see the representative of a syndicate at eleven."

Mr. Shorter, with a sigh, acknowledged this necessity, and escorted

Honora gallantly through the office and across the sidewalk to the

waiting hansom. Cuthbert got in beside her.

"Jerry's a joker," he observed as they drove off, "you mustn't mind him."

"I think he's delightful," said Honora.

"One wouldn't believe that a man of his size and appearance could be so

fond of women," said Mr. Cuthbert. "He's the greatest old lady-killer

that ever breathed. For two cents he would have come with us this

morning, and let a five thousand dollar commission go. Do you know Mrs.

Shorter?"

"No," replied Honora. "She looks most attractive. I caught a glimpse of

her at the polo that day with you."

"I've been at her house in Newport ever since. Came down yesterday to try

to earn some money," he continued, cheerfully making himself agreeable.

"Deuced clever woman, much too clever for me and Jerry too. Always in a

tete-a-tete with an antiquarian or a pathologist, or a psychologist, and

tells novelists what to put into their next books and jurists how to

decide cases. Full of modern and liberal ideas--believes in free love and

all that sort of thing, and gives Jerry the dickens for practising it."

"Oh!" exclaimed Honora.

Mr. Cuthbert, however, did not appear to realize that he had shocked her.

"By the way," he asked, "have you seen Cecil Grainger since the

Quicksands game?"

"No," she replied. "Has Mr. Grainger been at Quicksands since?"

"Nobody knows where he's been," answered Mr. Cuthbert. "It's a mystery.

He hasn't been home--at Newport, I mean-for a fortnight. He's never

stayed away so long without letting any one know where he is. Naturally

they thought he was at Mrs. Kame's in Banbury, but she hasn't laid eyes

on him. It's a mystery. My own theory is that he went to sleep in a

parlour car and was sent to the yards, and hasn't waked up."

"And isn't Mrs. Grainger worried?" asked Honora.

"Oh, you never can tell anything about her," he said. "Do you know her?

She's a sphinx. All the Pendletons are Stoics. And besides, she's been so

busy with this Charities Conference that she hasn't had time to think of

Cecil. Who's that?"

"That" was a lady from Rivington, one of Honora's former neighbours, to

whom she had bowed. Life, indeed, is full of contrasts. Mr. Cuthbert,

too, was continually bowing and waving to acquaintances on the Avenue.

Thus pleasantly conversing, they arrived at the first house on the list,

and afterwards went through a succession of them. Once inside, Honora

would look helplessly about her in the darkness while her escort would

raise the shades, admitting a gloomy light on bare interiors or shrouded

furniture.

And the rents: Four, five, six, and seven and eight thousand dollars a

year. Pride prevented her from discussing these prices with Mr. Cuthbert;

and in truth, when lunch time came, she had seen nothing which realized

her somewhat vague but persistent ideals.

"I'm so much obliged to you," she said, "and I hope you'll forgive me for

wasting your time."

Mr. Cuthbert smiled broadly, and Honora smiled too.

Indeed, there was something ludicrous in the remark. He assumed an

attitude of reflection.

"I imagine you wouldn't care to go over beyond Lexington Avenue, would

you? I didn't think to ask you."

"No," she replied, blushing a little, "I shouldn't care to go over as far

as that."

He pondered a while longer, when suddenly his face lighted up.

"I've got it!" he cried, "the very thing--why didn't. I think of it?

Dicky Farnham's house, or rather his wife's house. I'll get it straight

after a while,--she isn't his wife any more, you know; she married

Eustace Rindge last month. That's the reason it's for rent. Dicky says

he'll never get married again--you bet! They planned it together, laid

the corner-stone and all that sort of thing, and before it was finished

she had a divorce and had gone abroad with Rindge. I saw her before she

sailed, and she begged me to rent it. But it isn't furnished."

"I might look at it," said Honora, dubiously.

"I'm sure it will just suit you," he declared with enthusiasm. "It's a

real find. We'll drive around by the office and get the keys."

The house was between Fifth Avenue and Madison, on a cross street not far

below Fifty-Ninth, and Honora had scarcely entered the little

oak-panelled hall before she had forgotten that Mr. Cuthbert was a real

estate agent--a most difficult thing to remember.

Upstairs, the drawing-room was flooded with sunlight that poured in

through a window with stone mullions and leaded panes extending the

entire width of the house. Against the wall stood a huge stone mantel of

the Tudor period, and the ceiling was of wood. Behind the little hall a

cosey library lighted by a well, and behind that an ample dining-room.

And Honora remembered to have seen, in a shop on Fourth Avenue, just the

sideboard for such a setting.

On the third floor, as Mr. Cuthbert pointed out, there was a bedroom and

boudoir for Mrs. Spence, and a bedroom and dressing-room for Mr. Spence.

Into the domestic arrangement of the house, however important, we need

not penetrate. The rent was eight thousand dollars, which Mr. Cuthbert

thought extremely reasonable.

"Eight thousand dollars!" As she stood with her back turned, looking out

on the street, some trick of memory brought into her mind the fact that

she had once heard her uncle declare that he had bought his house and lot

for that exact sum. And as cashier of Mr. Isham's bank, he did not earn

so much in a year.

She had found the house, indeed, but the other and mightier half of the

task remained, of getting Howard into it. In the consideration of this

most difficult of problems Honora, who in her exaltation had beheld

herself installed in every room, grew suddenly serious. She was startled

out of her reflections by a remark of almost uncanny penetration on the

part of Mr. Cuthbert.

"Oh, he'll come round all right, when he sees the house," that young

gentleman declared.

Honora turned quickly, and, after a moment of astonishment, laughed in

spite of herself. It was impossible not to laugh with Mr. Cuthbert, so

irresistible and debonair was he, so confiding and sympathetic, that he

became; before one knew it, an accomplice. Had he not poured out to

Honora, with a charming gayety and frankness, many of his financial

troubles?

"I'm afraid he'll think it frightfully expensive," she answered, becoming

thoughtful once more. And it did not occur to her that neither of them

had mentioned the individual to whom they referred.

"Wait until he's feeling tiptop," Mr. Cuthbert advised, "and then bring

him up here in a hurry. I say, I hope you do take the house," he added,

with a boyish seriousness after she had refused his appeal to lunch with

him, "and that you will let me come and see you once in a while."

She lunched alone, in a quiet corner of the dining-room of one of the

large hotels, gazing at intervals absently out of the window. And by the

middle of the afternoon she found herself, quite unexpectedly, in the

antique furniture shop, gazing at the sideboard and a set of

leather-seated Jacobean chairs, and bribing the dealer with a smile to

hold them for a few days until she could decide whether she wished them.

In a similar mood of abstraction she boarded the ferry, but it was not

until the boat had started on its journey that she became aware of a

trim, familiar figure in front of her, silhouetted against the ruffed

blue waters of the river--Trixton Brent's. And presently, as though the

concentration of her thoughts upon his back had summoned him, he turned.

"Where have you been all this time?" she asked. "I haven't seen you for

an age."

"To Seattle."

"To Seattle!" she exclaimed. "What were you doing there?"

"Trying to forget you," he replied promptly, "and incidentally attempting

to obtain control of some properties. Both efforts, I may add, were

unsuccessful."

"I'm sorry," said Honora.

"And what mischief," he demanded, "have you been up to?"

"You'll never guess!" she exclaimed.

"Preparing for the exodus," he hazarded.

"You surely don't expect me to stay in Quicksands all winter?" she

replied, a little guiltily.

"Quicksands," he declared, "has passed into history."

"You always insist upon putting a wrong interpretation upon what I do,"

she complained.

He laughed.

"What interpretation do you put on it?" he asked.

"A most natural and praiseworthy one," she answered. "Education,

improvement, growth--these things are as necessary for a woman as for a

man. Of course I don't expect you to believe that--your idea of women not

being a very exalted one."

He did not reply, for at that instant the bell rang, the passengers

pressed forward about them, and they were soon in the midst of the

confusion of a landing. It was not until they were seated in adjoining

chairs of the parlour-car that the conversation was renewed.

"When do you move to town?" he inquired.

However simple Mr. Brent's methods of reasoning may appear to others, his

apparent clairvoyance never failed to startle Honora.

"Somebody has told you that I've been looking at houses!" she exclaimed.

"Have you found one?"

She hesitated.

"Yes--I have found one. It belongs to some people named Farnham--they're

divorced."

"Dicky Farnham's ex-wife," he supplied. "I know where it is

--unexceptionable neighbourhood and all that sort of thing."

"And it's just finished," continued Honora, her enthusiasm gaining on her

as she spoke of the object which had possessed her mind for four hours.

"It's the most enchanting house, and so sunny for New York. If I had

built it myself it could not have suited me better. Only--"

"Only--" repeated Trixton Brent, smiling.

"Well," she said slowly, "I really oughtn't to talk about it. I--I

haven't said anything to Howard yet, and he may not like it. I ran across

it by the merest accident."

"What will you give me," he said, "if I can induce Howard to like it?"

"My eternal friendship," she laughed.

"That's not enough," said Trixton Brent.

CHAPTER IX

INTRODUCING A REVOLUTIONIZING VEHICLE

"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."