On the lovely July afternoon Levi Schomberg had called to see Jessica and Stapleton, and had afterwards wandered into the Park, Yootha was on the river with Preston. A friend of his whose home was at Pangbourne had, he had told her, on being suddenly ordered abroad, told him he could, during his absence, make use of his punt if ever he felt inclined to; though Preston had himself just rented a house-boat which was moored close to Maidenhead. Until now he had not felt inclined; punting alone is a dull form of amusement, and Preston had comparatively few friends in London. Then one day, while thinking of Yootha, the idea had occurred to him that she might like a river picnic from time to time, and he had hinted as much to her; Pangbourne was more solitary than Maidenhead he reflected.
They were in a narrow estuary—it was not a backwater—with the punt moored to a tree, and for some moments neither had spoken. No sound, save of birds singing in the woods around, broke the almost perfect stillness. The air was sultry, as though thunder were in the air.
“How fortunate I should have accepted La Planta’s invitation to lunch at the Ritz that day last August,” Preston said suddenly. “I did not want to lunch with him, I remember, but now I am glad I did.”
“Why are you glad?” she asked, looking across at him. She was lying in the stern, propped up with cushions, and made a pretty picture in her big hat and the becoming boating frock which revealed her figure.
He gazed at her without answering. Then, as if to conceal his embarrassment, he began to light his briar.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he replied awkwardly, tossing the match into the water. “That was the first time I met you, if you remember.”
If she remembered! Could she ever forget? That was the thought which flashed into her brain, but she did not utter it. Instead, she said carelessly:
“So it was. And the first time you met Jessica, too, wasn’t it?”
He made an impatient movement.
“Please don’t remind me of that. Every time I think of that woman I feel positively vicious.”