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.”