“Jehosaphat!” he cried, “I never heard such talk in my life.”

The idea that her love for him might have ebbed a little, or that she would for a moment consider leaving him, he rejected as preposterous, of course:  the reputation which the majority of her sex had made throughout the ages for constancy to the marriage tie was not to be so lightly dissipated.  Nevertheless, there was in her words a new undertone of determination he had never before heard—­or, at least, noticed.

There was one argument, or panacea, which had generally worked like a charm, although some time had elapsed since last he had resorted to it.  He tried to seize and kiss her, but she eluded him.  At last he caught her, out of breath, in the corner of the room.

“Howard—­you’ll knock over the lamp—­you’ll ruin my gown—­and then you’ll have to buy me another.  I did mean it,” she insisted, holding back her head; “you’ll have to choose between Rivington and me.  It’s—­it’s an ultimatum.  There were at least three awfully attractive men at Lily Dallam’s tea—­I won’t tell you who they were—­who would be glad to marry me in a minute.”

He drew her down on the arm of his chair.

“Now that Lily has a house in town,” he said weakly, “I suppose you think you’ve got to have one.”

“Oh, Howard, it is such a dear house.  I had no idea that so much could be done with so narrow a front.  It’s all French, with mirrors and big white panels and satin chairs and sofas, and a carved gilt piano that she got for nothing from a dealer she knows; and church candlesticks.  The mirrors give it the effect of being larger than it really is.  I’ve only two criticisms to make:  it’s too far from Fifth Avenue, and one can scarcely turn around in it without knocking something down—­a photograph frame or a flower vase or one of her spindle-legged chairs.  It was only a hideous, old-fashioned stone front when she bought it.  I suppose nobody but Reggie Farwell could have made anything out of it.”

“Who’s Reggie Farwell?” inquired her husband.

“Howard, do you really mean to say you’ve never heard of Reggie Farwell?  Lily was so lucky to get him—­she says he wouldn’t have done the house if he hadn’t been such a friend of hers.  And he was coming to the tea this afternoon—­only something happened at the last minute, and he couldn’t.  She was so disappointed.  He built the Maitlands’ house, and did over the Cecil Graingers’.  And he’s going to do our house—­some day.”

“Why not right away?” asked Howard.

“Because I’ve made up my mind to be very, very reasonable,” she replied.  “We’re going to Quicksands for a while, first.”

“To Quicksands!” he repeated.  But in spite of himself he experienced a feeling of relief that she had not demanded a town mansion on the spot.

Honora sprang to her feet.

“Get up, Howard,” she cried, “remember that we’re going out for dinner-and you’ll never be ready.”