ke 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