“That’s, a remarkable husband of yours,” he said at length.

“I shouldn’t have said that you were a particularly good judge of husbands,” she retorted, after a moment of surprise.

He acknowledged with a laugh the justice of this observation.

“I stand corrected.  He is by no means a remarkable husband.  Permit me to say he is a remarkable man.”

“What makes you think so?” asked Honora, considerably disturbed.

“Because he induced you to marry him, for one thing,” said Brent.  “Of course he got you before you knew what you were worth, but we must give him credit for discovery and foresight.”

“Perhaps,” Honora could not resist replying, “perhaps he didn’t know what he was getting.”

“That’s probably true,” Brent assented, “or he’d be sitting here now, where I am, instead of playing poker.  Although there is something in matrimony that takes the bloom off the peach.”

“I think that’s a horrid, cynical remark,” said Honora.

“Well,” he said, “we speak according to our experiences—­that is, if we’re not inclined to be hypocritical.  Most women are.”

Honora was silent.  He had thrown away his cigar, and she could no longer see his face.  She wondered whither he was leading.

“How would you like to see your husband president of a trust company?” he said suddenly.

“Howard—­president of a trust company!” she exclaimed.

“Why not?” he demanded.  And added enigmatically, “Smaller men have been.”

“I wish you wouldn’t joke about Howard,” she said.

“How does the idea strike you?” he persisted.  “Ambition satisfied —­temporarily; Quicksands a mile-stone on a back road; another toy to break; husband a big man in the community, so far as the eye can see; visiting list on Fifth Avenue, and all that sort of thing.”

“I once told you you could be brutal,” she said.

“You haven’t told me what you thought of the idea.”

“I wish you’d be sensible once in a while,” she exclaimed.

“Howard Spence, President of the Orange Trust Company!” he recited.  “I suppose no man is a hero to his wife.  Does it sound so incredible?”

It did.  But Honora did not say so.

“What have I to do with it?” she asked, in pardonable doubt as to his seriousness.

“Everything,” answered Brent.  “Women of your type usually have.  They make and mar without rhyme or reason—­set business by the ears, alter the gold reserve, disturb the balance of trade, and nobody ever suspects it.  Old James Wing and I have got a trust company organized, and the building up, and the man Wing wanted for president backed out.”

Honora sat up.

“Why—­why did he ’back out’?” she demanded.

“He preferred to stay where he was, I suppose,” replied Brent, in another tone.  “The point is that the place is empty.  I’ll give it to you.”