"I suppose," he remarked, with a little irritation unusual in him, "that you'll be wanting to go to Newport next."
"Perhaps," said Honora, and resumed her letter. He fidgeted about the room for a while, ordered a cocktail, and lighted a cigarette.
"Look here," he began presently, "I wish you'd be decent to Brent. He's a pretty good fellow, and he's in with James Wing and that crowd of big financiers, and he seems to have taken a shine to me probably because he's heard of that copper deal I put through this spring."
Honora thrust back her writing pad, turned in her chair, and faced him.
"How 'decent' do you wish me to be?" she inquired.
"How decent?" he repeated.
"Yes."
He regarded her uneasily, took the cocktail which the maid offered him, drank it, and laid down the glass.
He had had before, in the presence of his wife, this vague feeling of having passed boundaries invisible to him. In her eyes was a curious smile that lacked mirth, in her voice a dispassionate note that added to his bewilderment.
"What do you mean, Honora?"