In the intervals the talk wandered into regions unfamiliar to Honora, and she had a sense that her own horizon was being enlarged.  A new vista, at least, had been cut:  possibilities became probabilities.  Even when Mrs. Kame chose to ridicule Quicksands Honora was silent, so keenly did she feel the justice of her guest’s remarks; and the implication was that Honora did not belong there.  When train time arrived and they were about to climb into Trixton Brent’s omnibus—­for which he had obligingly telephoned—­Mrs. Kame took Honora’s band in both her own.  Some good thing, after all, could come out of this community—­such was the triumphant discovery the lady’s manner implied.

“My dear, don’t you ever come to Banbury?” she asked.  I’d be so glad to see you.  I must get Trixy to drive you over some day for lunch.  We’ve had such a good time, and Cecil didn’t fall asleep once.  Quite a record.  You saved our lives, really.”

“Are you going to be in town this winter?” Mr. Grainger inquired.

“I,—­I suppose so—­replied Honora, for the moment taken aback, although I haven’t decided just where.”

“I shall look forward to seeing you,” he said.

This hope was expressed even more fervently by Mr. Cuthbert and Mr. Wing, and the whole party waved her a cordial good-by as the carriage turned the circle.  Trixton Brent, with his hands in his pockets, stood facing her under the electric light on the porch.

“Well?” he said.

“Well,” repeated Honora.

“Nice people,” said Mr. Brent.

Honora bridled.

“You invited them here,” she said.  “I must say I think it, was rather —­presumptuous.  And you’ve got me into no end of trouble with Lily Dallam.”

He laughed as he held open the screen door for her.

“I wonder whether a good angel was ever so abused,” he said.

“A good angel,” she repeated, smiling at him in spite of herself.

“Or knight-errant,” he continued, “whichever you choose.  You want to get out of Quicksands—­I’m trying to make it easy for you.  Before you leave you have to arrange some place to go.  Before we are off with the old we’d better be on with the new.”

“Oh, please don’t say such things,” she cried, “they’re so—­so sordid.”  She looked searchingly into his face.  “Do I really seem to you like that?”

Her lip was quivering, and she was still under the influence of the excitement which the visit of these people had brought about.

“No,” said Brent—­coming very close to her, “no, you don’t.  That’s the extraordinary part of it.  The trouble with you, Honora, is that you want something badly very badly—­and you haven’t yet found out what it is.

“And you won’t find out,” he added, “until you have tried everything.  Therefore am I a good Samaritan, or something like it.”

She looked at him with startled eyes, breathing deeply.

“I wonder if that is so!” she said, in a low voice.