“I thought that day,” Yootha continued, after a pause, “that you had eyes for nobody but Cora. You do like Cora, don’t you?”
“Of course I like her, though not, perhaps, as much as you like her. Nobody could help liking her—nobody who counts.”
“I am glad you say that. In my opinion she is the one woman in the world. I simply worship her, and always have. She is so true, so absolutely free from insincerity. You never met her husband, I think?”
“No—fortunately.”
“Why fortunately?”
“From what I have heard about him he must have been a terrible outsider. Was she very unhappy with him?”
“Very. They ought never to have married. Myself, I hated him. He was so selfish, so self-satisfied, in short such a bounder. I ought not, I suppose, to say that of a dead man, but I can’t help it. He was odious. I know you would have thought so had you known him.”
Preston went on sucking at his pipe for some moments, without speaking. Presently his eyes met Yootha’s. He tried to look away, but could not. And then, all at once, the girl gave a curious little laugh. It was so unlike her to laugh apparently at nothing, that Preston laughed too.
“What are we both laughing at?” she exclaimed, suddenly recovering. She had colored unexpectedly, and Preston noticed that the hand which hung over the side of the punt trembled.
“I can’t think,” he said. “I fancy I was laughing because I feel so happy.”