She did not reply.
“What do these sudden, virtuous resolutions mean?” he asked. “Resignation? Quicksands for life? Abandonment of the whole campaign?”
“There isn't any I campaign,” she said—and her voice caught in something like a sob. “I'm not that sordid kind of a person. And if I don't like Quicksands, it's because the whole atmosphere seems to be charged with—with just such a spirit.”
Her hand was lying on the seat. He covered it with his own so quickly that she left it there for a moment, as though paralyzed, while she listened to the first serious words he had ever addressed to her.
“Honora, I admire you more than any woman I have ever known,” he said.
Her breath came quickly, and she drew her hand away.
“I suppose I ought to feel complimented,” she replied.
At this crucial instant what had been a gliding flight of the automobile became, suddenly, a more or less uneven and jerky progress, accompanied by violent explosions. At the first of these Honora, in alarm, leaped to her feet. And the machine, after what seemed an heroic attempt to continue, came to a dead stop. They were on the outskirts of a village; children coming home from school surrounded them in a ring. Brent jumped out, the chauffeur opened the hood, and they peered together into what was, to Honora, an inexplicable tangle of machinery. There followed a colloquy, in technical French, between the master and the man.
“What's the matter?” asked Honora, anxiously.
“Nothing much,” said Brent, “spark-plugs. We'll fix it up in a few minutes.” He looked with some annoyance at the gathering crowd. “Stand back a little, can't you?” he cried, “and give us room.”