“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.