Late one afternoon in August Honora was riding homeward along the ocean road. The fragrant marshes that bordered it were a vivid green under the slanting rays of the sun, and she was gazing across them at the breakers crashing on the beach beyond. Trixton Brent was beside her.
"I wish you wouldn't stare at me so," she said, turning to him suddenly; "it is embarrassing."
"How did you know I was looking at you?" he asked.
"I felt it."
He drew his horse a little nearer.
"Sometimes you're positively uncanny," she added.
He laughed.
"I rather like that castles-in-Spain expression you wore," he declared.
"Castles in Spain?"
"Or in some other place where the real estate is more valuable. Certainly not in Quicksands."