"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.

The journey to Quicksands was accomplished in a good fellowship which
Honora, an hour before, would not have dreamed of. Even Mrs. Holt was not
wholly proof against the charms of Trixton Brent when he chose to exert
himself; and for some reason he did so choose. As they stood in the
starlight on the platform of the deserted little station while he went
across to Whelen's livery stable to get a carriage, Mrs. Holt remarked to
Honora:

"Mr. Brent is a fascinating man, my dear."

"I am so glad that you appreciate him," exclaimed Honora.