He readjusted his newspaper against the carafe.
“How much do you think Mrs. Farnham—or Mrs. Rindge—is worth?” he asked.
“I'm sure I don't know,” she replied.
“Old Marshall left her five million dollars.”
“What has that to do with it?” inquired Honora.
“She isn't going to rent, especially in that part of town, for nothing.”
“Wouldn't it be wiser, Howard, to wait and see the house. You know you proposed it yourself, and it won't take very much of your time.”
He returned to a perusal of the financial column, but his eye from time to time wandered from the sheet to his wife, who was reading her letters.
“Howard,” she said, “I feel dreadfully about Mrs. Holt. We haven't been at Silverdale all summer. Here's a note from her saying she'll be in town to-morrow for the Charities Conference, asking me to come to see her at her hotel. I think I'll go to Silverdale a little later.”
“Why don't you?” he said. “It would do you good.”