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.
“I'd really like to know.”
“Before I begin on the somewhat lengthy list of your qualities,” he replied, smiling, “may I ask why you'd like to know?”
“Yes,” she said quickly. “I'd like to know because I think you've misjudged me. I was really more angry than you have any idea of at the manner in which you talked to Howard. And did you seriously suppose that I was in earnest when we spoke about your assistance in persuading him to take the house?”
He laughed.
“You are either the cleverest woman in the world,” he declared, “or else you oughtn't to be out without a guardian. And no judge in possession of his five senses would appoint your husband.”
Indignant as she was, she could not resist smiling. There was something in the way Brent made such remarks that fascinated her.