"Deuced clever," he repeated.
"An experienced moth," suggested Honora; "perhaps one that has been singed a little, once or twice. Good-by—I've enjoyed myself immensely."
She glanced back at him as she walked down the path to the roadway. He was still standing where she had left him, his feet slightly apart, his hands in the pockets of his riding breeches, looking after her.
Her announcement of an engagement with Mrs. Dallam had been, to put it politely, fiction. She spent the rest of the afternoon writing letters home, pausing at periods to look out of the window. Occasionally it appeared that her reflections were amusing. At seven o'clock Howard arrived, flushed and tired after his day of rest.
"By the way, Honora, I saw Trixy Brent at the Club, and he said you wouldn't go riding with him."
"Do you call him Trixy to his face?" she asked.
"What? No—but everyone calls him Trixy. What's the matter with you?"
"Nothing," she replied. "Only—the habit every one has in Quicksands of speaking of people they don't know well by their nicknames seems rather bad taste."
"I thought you liked Quicksands," he retorted. "You weren't happy until you got down here."
"It's infinitely better than Rivington," she said.