“By the way, Honora, I saw Trixy Brent at the Club, and he said you wouldn't go riding with him.”
“Do you call him Trixy to his face?” she asked.
“What? No—but everyone calls him Trixy. What's the matter with you?”
“Nothing,” she replied. “Only—the habit every one has in Quicksands of speaking of people they don't know well by their nicknames seems rather bad taste.”
“I thought you liked Quicksands,” he retorted. “You weren't happy until you got down here.”
“It's infinitely better than Rivington,” she said.
“I suppose,” he remarked, with a little irritation unusual in him, “that you'll be wanting to go to Newport next.”
“Perhaps,” said Honora, and resumed her letter. He fidgeted about the room for a while, ordered a cocktail, and lighted a cigarette.
“Look here,” he began presently, “I wish you'd be decent to Brent. He's a pretty good fellow, and he's in with James Wing and that crowd of big financiers, and he seems to have taken a shine to me probably because he's heard of that copper deal I put through this spring.”
Honora thrust back her writing pad, turned in her chair, and faced him.