She was always going to take the train, and didn’t.  Whenever her mind was irrevocably made up, the automobile whirled away on all four cylinders for a half a mile or so, until they were out of reach of the railroad.  There were trolley cars, to be sure, but those took forever to get anywhere.  Four o’clock struck, five and six, when at last the fiend who had conspired with fate, having accomplished his evident purpose of compelling Honora to miss her dinner, finally abandoned them as suddenly and mysteriously as he had come, and the automobile was a lamb once more.  It was half-past six, and the sun had set, before they saw the lights twinkling all yellow on the heights of Fort George.  At that hour the last train they could have taken to reach the dinner-party in time was leaving the New York side of the ferry.

“What will they think?” cried Honora.  “They saw us leave Delmonico’s at two o’clock, and they didn’t know we were going to Westchester.”

It needed no very vivid imagination to summon up the probable remarks of Mrs. Chandos on the affair.  It was all very well to say the motor broke down; but unfortunately Trixton Brent’s reputation was not much better than that of his car.

Trixton Brent, as might have been expected, was inclined to treat the matter as a joke.

“There’s nothing very formal about a Quicksands dinner-party,” he said.  “We’ll have a cosey little dinner in town, and call ’em up on the telephone.”

She herself was surprised at the spirit of recklessness stealing over her, for there was, after all, a certain appealing glamour in the adventure.  She was thrilled by the swift, gliding motion of the automobile, the weird and unfamiliar character of these upper reaches of a great city in the twilight, where new houses stood alone or m rows on wide levelled tracts; and old houses, once in the country, were seen high above the roadway behind crumbling fences, surrounded by gloomy old trees with rotting branches.  She stole a glance at the man close beside her; a delightful fear of him made her shiver, and she shrank closer into the corner of the seat.

“Honora!”

All at once he had seized her hand again, and held it in spite of her efforts to release it.

“Honora,” he said, “I love you as I have never loved in my life.  As I never shall love again.”

“Oh—­you mustn’t say that!” she cried.

“Why not?” he demanded.  “Why not, if I feel it?”

“Because,” faltered Honora, “because I can’t listen to you.”

Brent made a motion of disdain with his free hand.

“I don’t pretend that it’s right,” he said.  “I’m not a hypocrite, anyway, thank God!  It’s undoubtedly wrong, according to all moral codes.  I’ve never paid any attention to them.  You’re married.  I’m happy to say I’m divorced.  You’ve got a husband.  I won’t be guilty of the bad taste of discussing him.  He’s a good fellow enough, but he never thinks about you from