"I don't know. It's because of your deteriorating influence, I suppose.
And yet I trust you, in spite of my instincts and--my eyes. I'm seriously
put out with you."

"Why?"

"I'll tell you later, if you're at a loss," she said, as Mrs. Kame and
Mr. Grainger appeared.

Eight years have elapsed since that day and this writing--an aeon in this
rapidly moving Republic of ours. The roads, although far from perfect
yet, were not then what they have since become. But the weather was dry
and the voyage to Westchester accomplished successfully. It was half-past
three when they drove up the avenue and deposited Mrs. Kame and Cecil
Grainger at the long front of the Faunce house: and Brent, who had been
driving, relinquished the wheel to the chauffeur and joined Honora in the
tonneau. The day was perfect, the woods still heavy with summer foliage,
and the only signs of autumn were the hay mounds and the yellowing
cornstalks stacked amidst the stubble of the fields.

Brent sat silently watching her, for she had raised her veil in saying
good-by to Mrs. Kame, and--as the chauffeur was proceeding slowly--had
not lowered it. Suddenly she turned and looked him full in the face.

"What kind of woman do you think I am?" she demanded.

"That's rather a big order, isn't it?" he said.

"I'm perfectly serious," continued Honora, slowly.