“Why do you take it for granted that I have dropped?” she asked sweetly.

He looked at her queerly for a moment, and then burst out laughing.

“Because you are sitting next to Lucifer,” he said.  “It’s kind of me to warn you, isn’t it?”

“It wasn’t necessary,” replied Honora.  “And besides, as a dinner companion, I imagine Lucifer couldn’t be improved on.”

He laughed again.

“As a dinner companion!” he repeated.  “So you would limit Lucifer to dinners?  That’s rather a severe punishment, since we’re neighbours.”

“How delightful to have Lucifer as one’s neighbour,” said Honora, avoiding his eyes.  “Of course I’ve been brought up to believe that he was always next door, so to speak, but I’ve never—­had any proof of it until now.”

“Proof!” echoed Mr. Brent.  “Has my reputation gone before me?”

“I smell the brimstone,” said Honora.

He derived, apparently, infinite amusement from this remark likewise.

“If I had known I was to have the honour of sitting here, I should have used another perfume,” he replied.  “I have several.”

It was Honora’s turn to laugh.

“They are probably for—­commercial transactions, not for ladies,” she retorted.  “We are notoriously fond of brimstone, if it is not too strong.  A suspicion of it.”

Her colour was high, and she was surprised at her own vivacity.  It seemed strange that she should be holding her own in this manner with the renowned Trixton Brent.  No wonder, after four years of Rivington, that she tingled with an unwonted excitement.

At this point Mr. Brent’s eye fell upon Howard, who was explaining something to Mrs. Trowbridge at the far end of the table.

“What’s your husband like?” he demanded abruptly.

Honora was a little taken aback, but recovered sufficiently to retort:  “You’d hardly expect me to give you an unprejudiced judgment.”

“That’s true,” he agreed significantly.

“He’s everything,” added Honora, “that is to be expected in a husband.”

“Which isn’t much, in these days,” declared Mr. Brent.

“On the contrary,” said Honora.

“What I should like to know is why you came to Quicksands,” said Mr. Brent.

“For a little excitement,” she replied.  “So far, I have not been disappointed.  But why do you ask that question?” she demanded, with a slight uneasiness.  “Why did you come here?”

“Oh,” he said, “you must remember that I’m—­Lucifer, a citizen of the world, at home anywhere, a sort of ’freebooter.  I’m not here all the time—­but that’s no reflection on Quicksands.  May I make a bet with you, Mrs. Spence?”

“What about?”

“That you won’t stay in Quicksands more than six months,” he answered.

“Why do you say that?” she asked curiously.

He shook his head.

“My experience with your sex,” he declared enigmatically, “has not been a slight one.”