He did not reply, for at that instant the bell rang, the passengers pressed forward about them, and they were soon in the midst of the confusion of a landing. It was not until they were seated in adjoining chairs of the parlour-car that the conversation was renewed.
“When do you move to town?” he inquired.
However simple Mr. Brent's methods of reasoning may appear to others, his apparent clairvoyance never failed to startle Honora.
“Somebody has told you that I've been looking at houses!” she exclaimed.
“Have you found one?”
She hesitated.
“Yes—I have found one. It belongs to some people named Farnham—they're divorced.”
“Dicky Farnham's ex-wife,” he supplied. “I know where it is—unexceptionable neighbourhood and all that sort of thing.”
“And it's just finished,” continued Honora, her enthusiasm gaining on her as she spoke of the object which had possessed her mind for four hours. “It's the most enchanting house, and so sunny for New York. If I had built it myself it could not have suited me better. Only—”
“Only—” repeated Trixton Brent, smiling.