"Thank you," he said, smiling a little. "But you needn't go to London for that."
"Oh, shucks!" said Cynthia, colouring deeply. "There's more than one woman in the world, Jack."
"Not for me," he said quietly.
She was silent for a space. Then:
"And if that one woman is such a sublime fool, such an ungrateful little beast, as not to be able to—to love you as you deserve to be loved?" she suggested, a slight break in her voice.
He turned his head at that, and looked for an instant straight into her eyes.
"She is still the one woman, dear," he said, very tenderly. "Always remember that."
She shook her head in protest. Her lips were quivering too much for speech.
Babbacombe drove slowly on in silence.
At last the hand upon his knee pressed slightly.