CHAPTER IX. INTRODUCING A REVOLUTIONIZING VEHICLE
“Howard,” said Honora that evening, “I've been going through houses to-day.”
“Houses!” he exclaimed, looking up from his newspaper.
“And I've been most fortunate,” she continued. “I found one that Mrs. Farnham built—she is now Mrs. Rindge. It is just finished, and so attractive. If I'd looked until doomsday I couldn't have done any better.”
“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.”
“Not things, not—not toys,” Trixton Brent's expression involuntarily coming to her lips. “Oh, can't you see I'm not that kind of a woman? I don't want to be bought. I want you, whatever you are, if you are. I want to be saved. Take care of me—see a little more of me—be a little interested in what I think. God gave me a mind, and—other men have discovered it. You don't know, you can't know, what temptations you subject me to. It isn't right, Howard. And oh, it is humiliating not to be able to interest one's husband.”
“But you do interest me,” he protested.
She shook her head.
“Not so much as your business,” she said; “not nearly so much.”
“Perhaps I have been too absorbed,” he confessed. “One thing has followed another. I didn't suspect that you felt this way. Come, I'll try to brace up.” He pressed her to him. “Don't feel badly. You're overwrought. You've exaggerated the situation, Honora. We'll go in on the eight o'clock train together and look at the house—although I'm afraid it's a little steep,” he added cautiously.
“I don't care anything about the house,” said Honora. “I don't want it.”
“There!” he said soothingly, “you'll feel differently in the morning. We'll go and look at it, anyway.”
Her quick ear, however, detected an undertone which, if not precisely resentment, was akin to the vexation that an elderly gentleman might be justified in feeling who has taken the same walk for twenty years, and is one day struck by a falling brick. Howard had not thought of consulting her in regard to remaining all winter in Quicksands. And, although he might not realize it himself, if he should consent to go to New York one reason for his acquiescence would be that the country in winter offered a more or less favourable atmosphere for the recurrence of similar unpleasant and unaccountable domestic convulsions. Business demands peace at any price. And the ultimatum at Rivington, though delivered in so different a manner, recurred to him.
The morning sunlight, as is well known, is a dispeller of moods, a disintegrator of the night's fantasies. It awoke Honora at what for her was a comparatively early hour, and as she dressed rapidly she heard her husband whistling in his room. It is idle to speculate on the phenomenon taking place within her, and it may merely be remarked in passing that she possessed a quality which, in a man, leads to a career and fame. Unimagined numbers of America's women possess that quality—a fact that is becoming more and more apparent every day.
“Why, Honora!” Howard exclaimed, as she appeared at the breakfast table. “What's happened to you?”
“Have you forgotten already,” she asked, smilingly, as she poured out her coffee, “that we are going to town together?”
He readjusted his newspaper against the carafe.
“How much do you think Mrs. Farnham—or Mrs. Rindge—is worth?” he asked.
“I'm sure I don't know,” she replied.
“Old Marshall left her five million dollars.”
“What has that to do with it?” inquired Honora.
“She isn't going to rent, especially in that part of town, for nothing.”
“Wouldn't it be wiser, Howard, to wait and see the house. You know you proposed it yourself, and it won't take very much of your time.”
He returned to a perusal of the financial column, but his eye from time to time wandered from the sheet to his wife, who was reading her letters.
“Howard,” she said, “I feel dreadfully about Mrs. Holt. We haven't been at Silverdale all summer. Here's a note from her saying she'll be in town to-morrow for the Charities Conference, asking me to come to see her at her hotel. I think I'll go to Silverdale a little later.”
“Why don't you?” he said. “It would do you good.”
“And you?” she asked.
“My only day of the week is Sunday, Honora. You know that. And I wouldn't spend another day at Silverdale if they gave me a deed to the property,” he declared.
On the train, when Howard had returned from the smoking car and they were about to disembark at Long Island City, they encountered Mr. Trixton Brent.
“Whither away?” he cried in apparent astonishment. “Up at dawn, and the eight o'clock train!”
“We were going to look at a house,” explained Honora, “and Howard has no other time.”
“I'll go, too,” declared Mr. Brent, promptly. “You mightn't think me a judge of houses, but I am. I've lived in so many bad ones that I know a good one when I see it now.”
“Honora has got a wild notion into her head that I'm going to take the Farnham house,” said Howard, smiling. There, on the deck of the ferryboat, in the flooding sunlight, the idea seemed to give him amusement. With the morning light Pharaoh must have hardened his heart.
“Well, perhaps you are,” said Mr. Brent, conveying to Honora his delight in the situation by a scarcely perceptible wink. “I shouldn't like to take the other end of the bet. Why shouldn't you? You're fat and healthy and making money faster than you can gather it in.”
Howard coughed, and laughed a little, uncomfortably. Trixton Brent was not a man to offend.
“Honora has got that delusion, too,” he replied. He steeled himself in his usual manner for the ordeal to come by smoking a cigarette, for the arrival of such a powerful ally on his wife's side lent a different aspect to the situation.
Honora, during this colloquy, was silent. She was a little uncomfortable, and pretended not to see Mr. Brent's wink.
“Incredible as it may seem, I expected to have my automobile ready this morning,” he observed; “we might have gone in that. It landed three days ago, but so far it has failed to do anything but fire off revolver shots.”
“Oh, I do wish you had it,” said Honora, relieved by the change of subject. “To drive in one must be such a wonderful sensation.”
“I'll let you know when it stops shooting up the garage and consents to move out,” he said. “I'll take you down to Quicksands in it.”
The prospective arrival of Mr. Brent's French motor car, which was looked for daily, had indeed been one of the chief topics of conversation at Quicksands that summer. He could appear at no lunch or dinner party without being subjected to a shower of questions as to where it was, and as many as half a dozen different women among whom was Mrs. Chandos—declared that he had promised to bring them out from New York on the occasion of its triumphal entry into the colony. Honora, needless to say, had betrayed no curiosity.
Neither Mr. Shorter nor Mr. Cuthbert had appeared at the real estate office when, at a little after nine o'clock; Honora asked for the keys. And an office boy, perched on the box seat of the carriage, drove with them to the house and opened the wrought-iron gate that guarded the entrance, and the massive front door. Honora had a sense of unreality as they entered, and told herself it was obviously ridiculous that she should aspire to such a dwelling. Yesterday, under the spell of that somewhat adventurous excursion with Mr. Cuthbert, she had pictured herself as installed. He had contrived somehow to give her a sense of intimacy with the people who lived thereabout—his own friends.
Perhaps it was her husband who was the disillusionizing note as he stood on the polished floor of the sunflooded drawing-room. Although bare of furniture, it was eloquent to Honora of a kind of taste not to be found at Quicksands: it carried her back, by undiscernible channels of thought, to the impression which, in her childhood, the Hanbury mansion had always made. Howard, in her present whimsical fancy, even seemed a little grotesque in such a setting. His inevitable pink shirt and obviously prosperous clothes made discord there, and she knew in this moment that he was appraising the house from a commercial standpoint. His comment confirmed her guess.
“If I were starting out to blow myself, or you, Honora,” he said, poking with his stick a marmouset of the carved stone mantel, “I'd get a little more for my money while I was about it.”
Honora did not reply. She looked out of the window instead.
“See here, old man,” said Trixton Brent, “I'm not a real estate dealer or an architect, but if I were in your place I'd take that carriage and hustle over to Jerry Shorter's as fast as I could and sign the lease.”
Howard looked at him in some surprise, as one who had learned that Trixton Brent's opinions were usually worth listening to. Characteristically, he did not like to display his ignorance.
“I know what you mean, Brent,” he replied, “and there may be something to the argument. It gives an idea of conservativeness and prosperity.”
“You've made a bull's-eye,” said Trixton Brent, succinctly.
“But—but I'm not ready to begin on this scale,” objected Howard.
“Why,” cried Brent, with evident zest—for he was a man who enjoyed sport in all its forms, even to baiting the husbands of his friends,—“when I first set eyes on you, old fellow, I thought you knew a thing or two, and you've made a few turns since that confirmed the opinion. But I'm beginning to perceive that you have limitations. I could sit down here now, if there were any place to sit, and calculate how much living in this house would be worth to me in Wall Street.”
Honora, who had been listening uneasily, knew that a shrewder or more disturbing argument could not have been used on her husband; and it came from Trixton Brent—to Howard at least—ex cathedra. She was filled with a sense of shame, which was due not solely to the fact that she was a little conscience-stricken because of her innocent complicity, nor that her husband did not resent an obvious attempt of a high-handed man to browbeat him; but also to the feeling that the character of the discussion had in some strange way degraded the house itself. Why was it that everything she touched seemed to become contaminated?
“There's no use staying any longer,” she said. “Howard doesn't like it.”
“I didn't say so,” he interrupted. “There's something about the place that grows on you. If I felt I could afford it—”
“At any rate,” declared Honora, trying to control her voice, “I've decided, now I've seen it a second time, that I don't want it. I only wished him to look at it,” she added, scornfully aware that she was taking up the cudgels in his behalf. But she could not bring herself, in Brent's presence, to declare that the argument of the rent seemed decisive.
Her exasperation was somewhat increased by the expression on Trixton Brent's face, which plainly declared that he deemed her last remarks to be the quintessence of tactics; and he obstinately refused, as they went down the stairs to the street, to regard the matter as closed.
“I'll take him down town in the Elevated,” he said, as he put her into the carriage. “The first round's a draw.”
She directed the driver to the ferry again, and went back to Quicksands. Several times during the day she was on the point of telephoning Brent not to try to persuade Howard to rent the house, and once she even got so far as to take down the receiver. But when she reflected, it seemed an impossible thing to do. At four o'clock she herself was called to the telephone by Mr. Cray, a confidential clerk in Howard's office, who informed her that her husband had been obliged to leave town suddenly on business, and would not be home that night.
“Didn't he say where he was going?” asked Honora.
“He didn't even tell me, Mrs. Spence,” Cray replied, “and Mr. Dallam doesn't know.”
“Oh, dear,” said Honora, “I hope he realizes that people are coming for dinner to-morrow evening.”
“I'm positive, from what he said, that he'll be back some time to-morrow,” Cray reassured her.
She refused an invitation to dine out, and retired shortly after her own dinner with a novel so distracting that she gradually regained an equable frame of mind. The uneasiness, the vague fear of the future, wore away, and she slept peacefully. In the morning, however; she found on her breakfast tray a note from Trixton Brent.
Her first feeling after reading it was one of relief that he had not mentioned the house. He had written from a New York club, asking her to lunch with him at Delmonico's that day and drive home in the motor. No answer was required: if she did not appear at one o'clock, he would know she couldn't come.
Honora took the eleven o'clock train, which gave her an hour after she arrived in New York to do as she pleased. Her first idea, as she stood for a moment amidst the clamour of the traffic in front of the ferry house, was to call on Mrs. Holt at that lady's hotel; and then she remembered that the Charities Conference began at eleven, and decided to pay a visit to Madame Dumond, who made a specialty of importing novelties in dress. Her costume for the prospective excursion in the automobile had cost Honora some thought that morning. As the day was cool, she had brought along an ulster that was irreproachable. But how about the hat and veil?
Madame Dumond was enchanted. She had them both,—she had landed with them only last week. She tried them on Honora, and stood back with her hands clasped in an ecstasy she did not attempt to hide. What a satisfaction to sell things to Mrs. Spence! Some ladies she could mention would look like frights in them, but Madame Spence had 'de la race'. She could wear anything that was chic. The hat and veil, said Madame, with a simper, were sixty dollars.
“Sixty dollars!” exclaimed Honora.
“Ah, madame, what would you?” Novelties were novelties, the United States Custom authorities robbers.
Having attended to these important details, Honora drove to the restaurant in her hansom cab, the blood coursing pleasantly in her veins. The autumn air sparkled, and New York was showing signs of animation. She glanced furtively into the little mirror at the side. Her veil was grey, and with the hat gave her somewhat the air of a religieuse, an aspect heightened by the perfect oval of her face; and something akin to a religious thrill ran through her.
The automobile, with its brass and varnish shining in the sunlight, was waiting a little way up the street, and the first person Honora met in the vestibule of Delmonico's was Lula Chandos. She was, as usual, elaborately dressed, and gave one the impression of being lost, so anxiously was she scanning the face of every new arrival.
“Oh, my dear,” she cried, staring hard at the hat and the veil, “have you seen Clara Trowbridge anywhere?”
A certain pity possessed Honora as she shook her head.
“She was in town this morning,” continued Mrs. Chandos, “and I was sure she was coming here to lunch. Trixy just drove up a moment ago in his new car. Did you see it?”
Honora's pity turned into a definite contempt.
“I saw an automobile as I came in,” she said, but the brevity of her reply seemed to have no effect upon Mrs. Chandos.
“There he is now, at the entrance to the cafe,” she exclaimed.
There, indeed, was Trixton Brent, staring at them from the end of the hall, and making no attempt to approach them.
“I think I'll go into the dressing-room and leave my coat,” said Honora, outwardly calm but inwardly desperate. Fortunately, Lula made no attempt to follow her.
“You're a dream in that veil, my dear,” Mrs. Chandos called after her. “Don't forget that we're all dining with you to-night in Quicksands.”
Once in the dressing-room, Honora felt like locking the doors and jumping out of the window. She gave her coat to the maid, rearranged her hair without any apparent reason, and was leisurely putting on her hat again, and wondering what she would do next, when Mrs. Kame appeared.
“Trixy asked me to get you,” she explained. “Mr. Grainger and I are going to lunch with you.”
“How nice!” said Honora, with such a distinct emphasis of relief that Mrs. Kame looked at her queerly.
“What a fool Trixy was, with all his experience, to get mixed up with that Chandos woman,” that lady remarked as they passed through the hallway. “She's like molasses—one can never get her off. Lucky thing he found Cecil and me here. There's your persistent friend, Trixy,” she added, when they were seated. “Really, this is pathetic, when an invitation to lunch and a drive in your car would have made her so happy.”
Honora looked around and beheld, indeed, Mrs. Chandos and two other Quicksands women, Mrs. Randall and Mrs. Barclay, at a table in the corner of the room.
“Where's Bessie to-day, Cecil—or do you know?” demanded Mrs. Kame, after an amused glance at Brent, who had not deigned to answer her. “I promised to go to Newport with her at the end of the week, but I haven't been able to find her.”
“Cecil doesn't know,” said Trixton Brent. “The police have been looking for him for a fortnight. Where the deuce have you been, Cecil?”
“To the Adirondacks,” replied Mr Grainger, gravely.
This explanation, which seemed entirely plausible to Honora, appeared to afford great amusement to Brent, and even to Mrs. Kame.
“When did you come to life?” demanded Brent.
“Yesterday,” said Mr. Grainger, quite as solemnly as before.
Mrs. Kame glanced curiously at Honora, and laughed again.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Trixy,” she said.
“Why?” he asked innocently. “There's nothing wrong in going to the Adirondacks—is there, Cecil?”
“No,” said Mr. Grainger, blinking rapidly.
“The Adirondacks,” declared Mrs. Kame, “have now become classic.”
“By the way,” observed Mr. Grainger, “I believe Bessie's in town to-day at a charity pow-wow, reading a paper. I've half a mind to go over and listen to it. The white dove of peace—and all that kind of thing.”
“You'd go to sleep and spoil it all,” said Brent.
“But you can't, Cecil!” cried Mrs. Kame. “Don't you remember we're going to Westchester to the Faunces' to spend the night and play bridge? And we promised to arrive early.”
“That's so, by George,” said Mr. Grainger, and he drank the rest of his whiskey-and-soda.
“I'll tell you what I'll do, if Mrs. Spence is willing,” suggested Brent. “If you start right after lunch, I'll take you out. We'll have plenty of time,” he added to Honora, “to get back to Quicksands for dinner.”
“Are you sure?” she asked anxiously. “I have people for dinner tonight.”
“Oh, lots of time,” declared Mrs. Kame. “Trixy's car is some unheard-of horse-power. It's only twenty-five miles to the Faunces', and you'll be back at the ferry by half-past four.”
“Easily,” said Trixton Brent.
CHAPTER X. ON THE ART OF LION TAMING
After lunch, while Mrs. Kame was telephoning to her maid and Mr. Grainger to Mrs. Faunce, Honora found herself alone with Trixton Brent in the automobile at a moment when the Quicksands party were taking a cab. Mrs. Chandos parsed long enough to wave her hand.
“Bon voyage!” she cried. “What an ideal party! and the chauffeur doesn't understand English. If you don't turn up this evening, Honora, I'll entertain your guests.”
“We must get back,” said Honora, involuntarily to Brent. “It would be too dreadful if we didn't!”
“Are you afraid I'll run off with you?” he asked.
“I believe you're perfectly capable of it,” she replied. “If I were wise, I'd take the train.”
“Why don't you?” he demanded.
She smiled.
“I don't know. It's because of your deteriorating influence, I suppose. And yet I trust you, in spite of my instincts and—my eyes. I'm seriously put out with you.”
“Why?”
“I'll tell you later, if you're at a loss,” she said, as Mrs. Kame and Mr. Grainger appeared.
Eight years have elapsed since that day and this writing—an aeon in this rapidly moving Republic of ours. The roads, although far from perfect yet, were not then what they have since become. But the weather was dry and the voyage to Westchester accomplished successfully. It was half-past three when they drove up the avenue and deposited Mrs. Kame and Cecil Grainger at the long front of the Faunce house: and Brent, who had been driving, relinquished the wheel to the chauffeur and joined Honora in the tonneau. The day was perfect, the woods still heavy with summer foliage, and the only signs of autumn were the hay mounds and the yellowing cornstalks stacked amidst the stubble of the fields.
Brent sat silently watching her, for she had raised her veil in saying good-by to Mrs. Kame, and—as the chauffeur was proceeding slowly—had not lowered it. Suddenly she turned and looked him full in the face.
“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.
Her breath came quickly, and she drew her hand away.
“I suppose I ought to feel complimented,” she replied.
At this crucial instant what had been a gliding flight of the automobile became, suddenly, a more or less uneven and jerky progress, accompanied by violent explosions. At the first of these Honora, in alarm, leaped to her feet. And the machine, after what seemed an heroic attempt to continue, came to a dead stop. They were on the outskirts of a village; children coming home from school surrounded them in a ring. Brent jumped out, the chauffeur opened the hood, and they peered together into what was, to Honora, an inexplicable tangle of machinery. There followed a colloquy, in technical French, between the master and the man.
“What's the matter?” asked Honora, anxiously.
“Nothing much,” said Brent, “spark-plugs. We'll fix it up in a few minutes.” He looked with some annoyance at the gathering crowd. “Stand back a little, can't you?” he cried, “and give us room.”
After some minutes spent in wiping greasy pieces of steel which the chauffeur extracted, and subsequent ceaseless grinding on the crank, the engine started again, not without a series of protesting cracks like pistol shots. The chauffeur and Brent leaped in, the bystanders parted with derisive cheers, and away they went through the village, only to announce by another series of explosions a second disaster at the other end of the street. A crowd collected there, too.
“Oh, dear!” said Honora, “don't you think we ought to take the train, Mr. Brent? If I were to miss a dinner at my own house, it would be too terrible!”
“There's nothing to worry about,” he assured her. “Nothing broken. It's only the igniting system that needs adjustment.”
Although this was so much Greek to Honora, she was reassured. Trixton Brent inspired confidence. There was another argument with the chauffeur, a little more animated than the first; more greasy plugs taken out and wiped, and a sharper exchange of compliments with the crowd; more grinding, until the chauffeur's face was steeped in perspiration, and more pistol shots. They were off again, but lamely, spurting a little at times, and again slowing down to the pace of an ox-cart. Their progress became a series of illustrations of the fable of the hare and the tortoise. They passed horses, and the horses shied into the ditch: then the same horses passed them, usually at the periods chosen by the demon under the hood to fire its pistol shots, and into the ditch went the horses once more, their owners expressing their thoughts in language at once vivid and unrestrained.
It is one of the blessed compensations of life that in times of prosperity we do not remember our miseries. In these enlightened days, when everybody owns an automobile and calmly travels from Chicago to Boston if he chooses, we have forgotten the dark ages when these machines were possessed by devils: when it took sometimes as much as three hours to go twenty miles, and often longer than that. How many of us have had the same experience as Honora!
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 in 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 the time the Exchange opens in the morning until he gets home at night and wants his dinner. You don't love him—it would be a miracle if a woman with any spirit did. He hasn't any more of an idea of what he possesses by legal right than the man I discovered driving in a cart one of the best hunters I ever had in my stables. To say that he doesn't appreciate you is a ludicrous understatement. Any woman would have done for him.”
“Please don't!” she implored him. “Please don't!”
But for the moment she knew that she was powerless, carried along like a chip on the crest of his passion.
“I don't pretend to say how it is, or why it is,” he went on, paying no heed to her protests. “I suppose there's one woman for every man in the world—though I didn't use to think so. I always had another idea of woman before I met you. I've thought I was in love with 'em, but now I understand it was only—something else. I say, I don't know what it is in you that makes me feel differently. I can't analyze it, and I don't want to. You're not perfect, by a good deal, and God knows I'm not. You're ambitious, but if you weren't, you'd be humdrum—yet there's no pitiful artifice in you as in other women that any idiot can see through. And it would have paralyzed forever any ordinary woman to have married Howard Spence.”
A new method of wooing, surely, and evidently peculiar to Trixton Brent. Honora, in the prey of emotions which he had aroused in spite of her, needless to say did not, at that moment, perceive the humour in it. His words gave her food for thought for many months afterwards.
The lion was indeed aroused at last, and whip or goad or wile of no avail. There came a time when she no longer knew what he was saying: when speech, though eloquent and forceful, seemed a useless medium. Her appeals were lost, and she found herself fighting in his arms, when suddenly they turned into one of the crowded arteries of Harlem. She made a supreme effort of will, and he released her.
“Oh!” she cried, trembling.
But he looked at her, unrepentant, with the light of triumph in his eyes.
“I'll never forgive you!” she exclaimed, breathless.
“I gloried in it,” he replied. “I shall remember it as long as I live, and I'll do it again.”
She did not answer him. She dropped her veil, and for a long space was silent while they rapidly threaded the traffic, and at length turned into upper Fifth Avenue, skirting the Park. She did not so much as glance at him. But he seemed content to watch her veiled profile in the dusk.
Her breath, in the first tumult of her thought, came and went deeply. But gradually as the street lights burned brighter and familiar sights began to appear, she grew more controlled and became capable of reflection. She remembered that there was a train for Quicksands at seven-fifteen, which Howard had taken once or twice. But she felt that the interval was too short. In that brief period she could not calm herself sufficiently to face her guests. Indeed, the notion of appearing alone, or with Brent, at that dinner-party, appalled her. And suddenly an idea presented itself.
Brent leaned over, and began to direct the chauffeur to a well-known hotel. She interrupted him.
“No,” she said, “I'd rather go to the Holland House.”
“Very well,” he said amicably, not a little surprised at this unlooked-for acquiescence, and then told his man to keep straight on down the Avenue.
She began mechanically to rearrange her hat and veil; and after that, sitting upright, to watch the cross streets with feverish anticipation, her hands in her lap.
“Honora?” he said.
She did not answer.
“Raise the veil, just for a moment, and look at me.”
She shook her head. But for some reason, best known to herself, she smiled a little. Perhaps it was because her indignation, which would have frightened many men into repentance, left this one undismayed. At any rate, he caught the gleam of the smile through the film of her veil, and laughed.
“We'll have a little table in the corner of the room,” he declared, “and you shall order the dinner. Here we are,” he cried to the chauffeur. “Pull up to the right.”
They alighted, crossed the sidewalk, the doors were flung open to receive them, and they entered the hotel.
Through the entrance to the restaurant Honora caught sight of the red glow of candles upon the white tables, and heard the hum of voices. In the hall, people were talking and laughing in groups, and it came as a distinct surprise to her that their arrival seemed to occasion no remark. At the moment of getting out of the automobile, her courage had almost failed her.
Trixton Brent hailed one of the hotel servants.
“Show Mrs. Spence to the ladies' parlour,” said he. And added to Honora, “I'll get a table, and have the dinner card brought up in a few moments.”
Honora stopped the boy at the elevator door.
“Go to the office,” she said, “and find out if Mrs. Joshua Holt is in, and the number of her room. And take me to the telephone booths. I'll wait there.”
She asked the telephone operator to call up Mr. Spence's house at Quicksands—and waited.
“I'm sorry, madam,” he said, after a little while, which seemed like half an hour to Honora, “but they've had a fire in the Kingston exchange, and the Quicksands line is out of order.”
Honora's heart sank; but the bell-boy had reappeared. Yes, Mrs. Holt was in.
“Take me to her room,” she said, and followed him into the elevator.
In response to his knock the door was opened by Mrs. Holt herself. She wore a dove-coloured gown, and in her hand was a copy of the report of the Board of Missions. For a moment she peered at Honora over the glasses lightly poised on the uncertain rim of her nose.
“Why—my dear!” she exclaimed, in astonishment. “Honora!”
“Oh,” cried Honora, “I'm so glad you're here. I was so afraid you'd be out.”
In the embrace that followed both the glasses and the mission report fell to the floor. Honora picked them up.
“Sit down, my dear, and tell me how you happen to be here,” said Mrs. Holt. “I suppose Howard is downstairs.”
“No, he isn't,” said Honora, rather breathlessly; “that's the reason I came here. That's one reason, I mean. I was coming to see you this morning, but I simply didn't have time for a call after I got to town.”
Mrs. Holt settled herself in the middle of the sofa, the only piece of furniture in the room in harmony with her ample proportions. Her attitude and posture were both judicial, and justice itself spoke in her delft-blue eyes.
“Tell me all about it,” she said, thus revealing her suspicions that there was something to tell.
“I was just going to,” said Honora, hastily, thinking of Trixton Brent waiting in the ladies' parlour. “I took lunch at Delmomico's with Mr. Grainger, and Mr. Brent, and Mrs. Kame—”
“Cecil Grainger?” demanded Mrs. Holt.
Honora trembled.
“Yes,” she said.
“I knew his father and mother intimately,” said Mrs. Holt, unexpectedly. “And his wife is a friend of mine. She's one of the most executive women we have in the 'Working Girls' Association,' and she read a paper today that was masterful. You know her, of course.”
“No,” said Honora, “I haven't met her yet.”
“Then how did you happen to be lunching with her husband?
“I wasn't lunching with him, Mrs. Holt,” said Honora; “Mr. Brent was giving the lunch.”
“Who's Mr. Brent?” demanded Mrs. Holt. “One of those Quicksands people?”
“He's not exactly a Quicksands person. I scarcely know how to describe him. He's very rich, and goes abroad a great deal, and plays polo. That's the reason he has a little place at Quicksands. He's been awfully kind both to Howard and me,” she added with inspiration.
“And Mrs. Kame?” said Mrs. Holt.
“She's a widow, and has a place at Banbury.
“I never heard of her,” said Mrs. Holt, and Honora thanked her stars.
“And Howard approves of these mixed lunches, my dear? When I was young, husbands and wives usually went to parties together.”
A panicky thought came to Honora, that Mrs. Holt might suddenly inquire as to the whereabouts of Mr. Brent's wife.
“Oh, Howard doesn't mind,” she said hastily. “I suppose times have changed, Mrs. Holt. And after lunch we all went out in Mr. Brent's automobile to the Faunces' in Westchester—”
“The Paul Jones Faunces?” Mrs. Holt interrupted.
“What a nice woman that young Mrs. Faunce is! She was Kitty Esterbrook, you know. Both of them very old families.”
“It was only,” continued Honora, in desperation, “it was only to leave Mr. Grainger and Mrs. Kame there to spend the night. They all said we had plenty of time to go and get back to Quicksands by six o'clock. But coming back the automobile broke down—”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Holt, “it serves any one right for trusting to them. I think they are an invention of the devil.”
“And we've only just got back to New York this minute.”
“Who?” inquired Mrs. Holt.
“Mr. Brent and I,” said Honora, with downcast eyes.
“Good gracious!” exclaimed the elder lady.
“I couldn't think of anything else to do but come straight here to you,” said Honora, gazing at her friend. “And oh, I'm so glad to find you. There's not another train to Quicksands till after nine.”
“You did quite right, my dear, under the circumstances. I don't say you haven't been foolish, but it's Howard's fault quite as much as yours. He has no business to let you do such things.”
“And what makes it worse,” said Honora, “is that the wires are down to Quicksands, and I can't telephone Howard, and we have people to dinner, and they don't know I went to Westchester, and there's no use telegraphing: it wouldn't be delivered till midnight or morning.”
“There, there, my dear, don't worry. I know how anxious you feel on your husband's account—”
“Oh—Mrs. Holt, I was going to ask you a great, great favour. Wouldn't you go down to Quicksands with me and spend the night—and pay us a little visit? You know we would so love to have you!”
“Of course I'll go down with you, my dear,” said Mrs. Holt. “I'm surprised that you should think for an instant that I wouldn't. It's my obvious duty. Martha!” she called, “Martha!”
The door of the bedroom opened, and Mrs. Holt's elderly maid appeared. The same maid, by the way, who had closed the shutters that memorable stormy night at Silverdale. She had, it seemed, a trick of appearing at crises.
“Martha, telephone to Mrs. Edgerly—you know her number-and say that I am very sorry, but an unexpected duty calls me out of town to-night, and ask her to communicate with the Reverend Mr. Field. As for staying with you, Honora,” she continued, “I have to be back at Silverdale to-morrow night. Perhaps you and Howard will come back with me. My frank opinion is, that a rest from the gayety of Quicksands will do you good.”
“I will come, with pleasure,” said Honora. “But as for Howard—I'm afraid he's too busy.”
“And how about dinner?” asked Mrs. Holt.
“I forgot to say,” said Honora, “that Mr. Brent's downstairs. He brought me here, of course. Have you any objection to his dining with us?”
“No,” answered Mrs. Holt, “I think I should like to see him.”
After Mrs. Holt had given instructions to her maid to pack, and Honora had brushed some of the dust of the roads from her costume, they descended to the ladies' parlour. At the far end of it a waiter holding a card was standing respectfully, and Trixton Brent was pacing up and down between the windows. When he caught sight of them he stopped in his tracks, and stared, and stood as if rooted to the carpet. Honora came forward.
“Oh, Mr. Brent!” she cried, “my old friend, Mrs. Holt, is here, and she's going to take dinner with us and come down to Quicksands for the night. May I introduce Mr. Brent.”
“Wasn't it fortunate, Mr. Brent, that Mrs. Spence happened to find me?” said Mrs. Holt, as she took his hand. “I know it is a relief to you.”
It was not often, indeed, that Trixton Brent was taken off his guard; but some allowance must be made for him, since he was facing a situation unparalleled in his previous experience. Virtue had not often been so triumphant, and never so dramatic as to produce at the critical instant so emblematic a defender as this matronly lady in dove colour. For a moment, he stared at her, speechless, and then he gathered himself together.
“A relief?” he asked.
“It would seem so to me,” said Mrs. Holt. “Not that I do not think you are perfectly capable of taking care of her, as an intimate friend of her husband. I was merely thinking of the proprieties. And as I am a guest in this hotel, I expect you both to do me the honour to dine with me before we start for Quicksands.”
After all, Trixton Brent had a sense of humour, although it must not be expected that he should grasp at once all the elements of a joke on himself so colossal.
“I, for one,” he said, with a slight bow which gave to his words a touch somewhat elaborate, “will be delighted.” And he shot at Honora a glance compounded of many feelings, which she returned smilingly.
“Is that the waiter?” asked Mrs. Holt.
“That is a waiter,” said Trixton Brent, glancing at the motionless figure. “Shall I call him?”
“If you please,” said Mrs. Holt. “Honora, you must tell me what you like.”
“Anything, Mrs. Holt,” said Honora.
“If we are to leave a little after nine,” said that lady, balancing her glasses on her nose and glancing at the card, “we have not, I'm afraid, time for many courses.”
The head waiter greeted them at the door of the dining-room. He, too, was a man of wisdom and experience. He knew Mrs. Holt, and he knew Trixton Brent. If gravity had not been a life-long habit with him, one might have suspected him of a desire to laugh. As it was, he seemed palpably embarrassed,—for Mr. Brent had evidently been conversing with him.
“Two, sir?” he asked.
“Three,” said Mrs. Holt, with dignity.
The head waiter planted them conspicuously in the centre of the room; one of the strangest parties, from the point of view of a connoisseur of New York, that ever sat down together. Mrs. Holt with her curls, and her glasses laid flat on the bosom of her dove-coloured dress; Honora in a costume dedicated to the very latest of the sports, and Trixton Brent in English tweeds. The dining-room was full. But here and there amongst the diners, Honora observed, were elderly people who smiled discreetly as they glanced in their direction—friends, perhaps, of Mrs. Holt. And suddenly, in one corner, she perceived a table of six where the mirth was less restrained.
Fortunately for Mr. Brent, he had had a cocktail, or perhaps two, in Honora's absence. Sufficient time had elapsed since their administration for their proper soothing and exhilarating effects. At the sound of the laughter in the corner he turned his head, a signal for renewed merriment from that quarter. Whereupon he turned back again and faced his hostess once more with a heroism that compelled Honora's admiration. As a sportsman, he had no intention of shirking the bitterness of defeat.
“Mrs. Grainger and Mrs. Shorter,” he remarked, “appear to be enjoying themselves.”
Honora felt her face grow hot as the merriment at the corner table rose to a height it had not heretofore attained. And she did not dare to look again.
Mrs. Holt was blissfully oblivious to her surroundings. She was, as usual, extremely composed, and improved the interval, while drinking her soup, with a more or less undisguised observation of Mr. Brent; evidently regarding him somewhat in the manner that a suspicious householder would look upon a strange gentleman whom he accidentally found in his front hall. Explanations were necessary. That Mr. Brent's appearance, on the whole, was in his favour did not serve to mitigate her suspicions. Good-looking men were apt to be unscrupulous.
“Are you interested in working girls, Mr. Brent?” she inquired presently.
Honora, in spite of her discomfort, had an insane desire to giggle. She did not dare to raise her eyes.
“I can't say that I've had much experience with them, Mrs. Holt,” he replied, with a gravity little short of sublime.
“Naturally you wouldn't have had,” said Mrs. Holt. “What I meant was, are you interested in the problems they have to face?”
“Extremely,” said he, so unexpectedly that Honora choked. “I can't say that I've given as many hours as I should have liked to a study of the subject, but I don't know of any class that has a harder time. As a rule, they're underpaid and overworked, and when night comes they are either tired to death or bored to death, and the good-looking ones are subject to temptations which some of them find impossible to resist, in a natural desire for some excitement to vary the routine of their lives.”
“It seems to me,” said Mrs. Holt, “that you are fairly conversant with the subject. I don't think I ever heard the problem stated so succinctly and so well. Perhaps,” she added, “it might interest you to attend one of our meetings next month. Indeed, you might be willing to say a few words.”
“I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me, Mrs. Holt. I'm a rather busy man, and nothing of a public speaker, and it is rarely I get off in the daytime.”
“How about automobiling?” asked Mrs. Holt, with a smile.
“Well,” said Trixton Brent, laughing in spite of himself, “I like the working girls, I have to have a little excitement occasionally. And I find it easier to get off in the summer than in the winter.”
“Men cover a multitude of sins under the plea of business,” said Mrs. Holt, shaking her head. “I can't say I think much of your method of distraction. Why any one desires to get into an automobile, I don't see.”
“Have you ever been in one?” he asked. “Mine is here, and I was about to invite you to go down to the ferry in it. I'll promise to go slow.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Holt, “I don't object to going that distance, if you keep your promise. I'll admit that I've always had a curiosity.”
“And in return,” said Brent, gallantly, “allow me to send you a cheque for your working girls.”
“You're very good,” said Mrs. Holt.
“Oh,” he protested, “I'm not in the habit of giving much to charities, I'm sorry to say. I'd like to know how it feels.”
“Then I hope the sensation will induce you to try it again,” said Mrs. Holt.
“Nobody, Mrs. Holt,” cried Honora, “could be kinder to his friends than Mr. Brent!”
“We were speaking of disinterested kindness, my dear,” was Mrs. Holt's reply.
“You're quite right, Mrs. Holt,” said Trixton Brent, beginning, as the dinner progressed, to take in the lady opposite a delight that surprised him. “I'm willing to confess that I've led an extremely selfish existence.”
“The confession isn't necessary,” she replied. “It's written all over you. You're the type of successful man who gets what he wants. I don't mean to say that you are incapable of kindly instincts.” And her eye twinkled a little.
“I'm very grateful for that concession, at any rate,” he declared.
“There might be some hope for you if you fell into the hands of a good woman,” said Mrs. Holt. “I take it you are a bachelor. Mark my words, the longer you remain one, the more steeped in selfishness you are likely to become in this modern and complex and sense-satisfying life which so many people lead.”
Honora trembled for what he might say to this, remembering his bitter references of that afternoon to his own matrimonial experience. Visions of a scene arose before her in the event that Mrs. Holt should discover his status. But evidently Trixton Brent had no intention of discussing his marriage.
“Judging by some of my married friends and acquaintances,” he said, “I have no desire to try matrimony as a remedy for unselfishness.”
“Then,” replied Mrs. Holt, “all I can say is, I should make new friends amongst another kind of people, if I were you. You are quite right, and if I were seeking examples of happy marriages, I should not begin my search among the so-called fashionable set of the present day. They are so supremely selfish that if the least difference in taste develops, or if another man or woman chances along whom they momentarily fancy more than their own husbands or wives, they get a divorce. Their idea of marriage is not a mutual sacrifice which brings happiness through trials borne together and through the making of character. No, they have a notion that man and wife may continue to lead their individual lives. That isn't marriage. I've lived with Joshua Holt thirty-five years last April, and I haven't pleased myself in all that time.”
“All men,” said Trixton Brent, “are not so fortunate as Mr. Holt.”
Honora began to have the sensations of a witness to a debate between Mephistopheles and the powers of heaven. Her head swam. But Mrs. Holt, who had unlooked-for flashes of humour, laughed, and shook her curls at Brent.
“I should like to lecture you some time,” she said; “I think it would do you good.”
He shook his head.
“I'm beyond redemption. Don't you think so, Honora?” he asked, with an unexpected return of his audacity.
“I'm afraid I'm not worthy to judge you,” she replied, and coloured.
“Stuff and nonsense,” said Mrs. Holt; “women are superior to men, and it's our duty to keep them in order. And if we're really going to risk our lives in your automobile, Mr. Brent, you'd better make sure it's there,” she added, glancing at her watch.
Having dined together in an apparent and inexplicable amity, their exit was of even more interest to the table in the corner than their entrance had been. Mrs. Holt's elderly maid was waiting in the hall, Mrs. Holt's little trunk was strapped on the rear of the car; and the lady herself, with something of the feelings of a missionary embarking for the wilds of Africa, was assisted up the little step and through the narrow entrance of the tonneau by the combined efforts of Honora and Brent. An expression of resolution, emblematic of a determination to die, if necessary, in the performance of duty, was on her face as the machinery started; and her breath was not quite normal when, in an incredibly brief period, they descended at the ferry.
The journey to Quicksands was accomplished in a good fellowship which Honora, an hour before, would not have dreamed of. Even Mrs. Holt was not wholly proof against the charms of Trixton Brent when he chose to exert himself; and for some reason he did so choose. As they stood in the starlight on the platform of the deserted little station while he went across to Whelen's livery stable to get a carriage, Mrs. Holt remarked to Honora:
“Mr. Brent is a fascinating man, my dear.”
“I am so glad that you appreciate him,” exclaimed Honora.
“And a most dangerous one,” continued Mrs. Holt. “He has probably, in his day, disturbed the peace of mind of a great many young women. Not that I haven't the highest confidence in you, Honora, but honesty forces me to confess that you are young and pleasure-loving, and a little heedless. And the atmosphere in which you live is not likely to correct those tendencies. If you will take my advice, you will not see too much of Mr. Trixton Brent when your husband is not present.”
Indeed, as to the probable effect of this incident on the relations between Mr. Brent and herself Honora was wholly in the dark. Although, from her point of view, what she had done had been amply justified by the plea of self-defence, it could not be expected that he would accept it in the same spirit. The apparent pleasure he had taken in the present situation, once his amazement had been overcome, profoundly puzzled her.
He returned in a few minutes with the carriage and driver, and they started off. Brent sat in front, and Honora explained to Mrs. Holt the appearance of the various places by daylight, and the names of their owners. The elderly lady looked with considerable interest at the blazing lights of the Club, with the same sensations she would no doubt have had if she had been suddenly set down within the Moulin Rouge. Shortly afterwards they turned in at the gate of “The Brackens.” The light streamed across the porch and driveway, and the sound of music floated out of the open windows. Within, the figure of Mrs. Barclay could be seen; she was singing vaudeville songs at the piano. Mrs. Holt's lips were tightly shut as she descended and made her way up the steps.
“I hope you'll come in,”, said Honora to Trixton Brent, in a low voice.
“Come in!” he replied, “I wouldn't miss it for ten thousand dollars.”
Mrs. Holt was the first of the three to appear at the door of the drawing-room, and Mrs. Barclay caught sight of her, and stopped in the middle of a bar, with her mouth open. Some of the guests had left. A table in the corner, where Lula Chandos had insisted on playing bridge, was covered with scattered cards and some bills, a decanter of whiskey, two soda bottles, and two glasses. The blue curling smoke from Mrs. Chandos' cigarette mingled with the haze that hung between the ceiling and the floor, and that lady was in the act of saying cheerfully to Howard, who sat opposite,—“Trixy's run off with her.”
Suddenly the chill of silence pervaded the room. Lula Chandos, whose back was turned to the door, looked from Mrs. Barclay to Howard, who, with the other men had risen to his feet.
“What's the matter?” she said in a frightened tone. And, following the eyes of the others, turned her head slowly towards the doorway.
Mrs. Holt, who filled it, had been literally incapable of speech. Close behind her stood Honora and Trixton whose face was inscrutable.
“Howard,” said Honora, summoning all the courage that remained in her, “here's Mrs. Holt. We dined with her, and she was good enough to come down for the night. I'm so sorry not to have been here,” she added to her guests, “but we went to Westchester with Mrs. Kame and Mr. Grainger, and the automobile broke down on the way back.”
Mrs. Holt made no attempt to enter, but stared fixedly at the cigarette that Mrs. Chandos still held in her trembling fingers. Howard crossed the room in the midst of an intense silence.
“Glad to see you, Mrs. Holt,” he said. “Er—won't you come in and—and sit down?”
“Thank you, Howard” she replied, “I do not wish to interrupt your party. It is my usual hour for retiring.