Only at the meeting in the grove were words exchanged between us. She bowed pleasantly and commented on the wonderful view.
“I am trespassing again, you see,” she said. “Taking advantage of your good-nature, Mr. Paine. This spot is the most attractive I have found in Denboro.”
I observed that the view from her verandas must be almost the same.
“Almost, but not quite,” she said. “These pines shut off the inlet below, and all the little fishing boats. One of them is yours, I suppose. Which?”
“That is my launch there,” I replied, pointing.
“The little white one? You built it yourself, I think Father said.”
“He was mistaken, if he said that. I am not clever enough to build a boat, Miss Colton. I bought the Comfort, second-hand.”
I don't know why I added the “second-hand.” Probably because I had not yet freed my mind from the bitterness—yes, and envy—which the sight of this girl and her people always brought with it. It is comparatively easy to be free from envy if one is what George Taylor termed a “never-was”; for a “has been” it is harder.
The boat's name was the only portion of my remark which attracted her attention.
“The Comfort?” she repeated. “That is a jolly name for a pleasure boat.”