“What kind of woman do you think I am?” she demanded.

“That’s rather a big order, isn’t it?” he said.

“I’m perfectly serious,” continued Honora, slowly.

“I’d really like to know.”

“Before I begin on the somewhat lengthy list of your qualities,” he replied, smiling, “may I ask why you’d like to know?”

“Yes,” she said quickly.  “I’d like to know because I think you’ve misjudged me.  I was really more angry than you have any idea of at the manner in which you talked to Howard.  And did you seriously suppose that I was in earnest when we spoke about your assistance in persuading him to take the house?”

He laughed.

“You are either the cleverest woman in the world,” he declared, “or else you oughtn’t to be out without a guardian.  And no judge in possession of his five senses would appoint your husband.”

Indignant as she was, she could not resist smiling.  There was something in the way Brent made such remarks that fascinated her.

“I shouldn’t call you precisely eligible, either,” she retorted.

He laughed again.  But his eyes made her vaguely uneasy.

“Are these harsh words the reward for my charity? he asked.

“I’m by no means sure it’s charity,” she said.  “That’s what is troubling me.  And you have no right to say such things about my husband.”

“How was I to know you were sensitive on the subject? he replied.

“I wonder what it would be like to be so utterly cynical as you,” she said.

“Do you mean to say you don’t want the house?”

“I don’t want it under those conditions,” she answered with spirit.  “I didn’t expect to be taken literally.  And you’ve always insisted,” she added, “in ascribing to me motives that—­that never occurred to me.  You make the mistake of thinking that because you have no ideals, other people haven’t.  I hope Howard hasn’t said he’d take the house.  He’s gone off somewhere, and I haven’t been able to see him.”

Trixton Brent looked at her queerly.

“After that last manoeuvre of yours,” he said, “it was all I could do to prevent him from rushing over to Jerry Shorter’s—­and signing the lease.”

She did not reply.

“What do these sudden, virtuous resolutions mean?” he asked.  “Resignation?  Quicksands for life?  Abandonment of the whole campaign?”

“There isn’t any I campaign,” she said—­and her voice caught in something like a sob.  “I’m not that sordid kind of a person.  And if I don’t like Quicksands, it’s because the whole atmosphere seems to be charged with —­with just such a spirit.”

Her hand was lying on the seat.  He covered it with his own so quickly that she left it there for a moment, as though paralyzed, while she listened to the first serious words he had ever addressed to her.

“Honora, I admire you more than any woman I have ever known,” he said.