“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.”