“I shouldn't call you precisely eligible, either,” she retorted.
He laughed again. But his eyes made her vaguely uneasy.
“Are these harsh words the reward for my charity? he asked.
“I'm by no means sure it's charity,” she said. “That's what is troubling me. And you have no right to say such things about my husband.”
“How was I to know you were sensitive on the subject? he replied.
“I wonder what it would be like to be so utterly cynical as you,” she said.
“Do you mean to say you don't want the house?”
“I don't want it under those conditions,” she answered with spirit. “I didn't expect to be taken literally. And you've always insisted,” she added, “in ascribing to me motives that—that never occurred to me. You make the mistake of thinking that because you have no ideals, other people haven't. I hope Howard hasn't said he'd take the house. He's gone off somewhere, and I haven't been able to see him.”
Trixton Brent looked at her queerly.
“After that last manoeuvre of yours,” he said, “it was all I could do to prevent him from rushing over to Jerry Shorter's—and signing the lease.”