“What makes you think that?” she asked curiously.
“Oh, I'm not a fool,” said Mr. Cuthbert. “But if I were a poet, or that fellow Dewing, I might be able to tell you what your eyes were like to-night.”
“I'm glad you're not,” said Honora.
As they were going in, she turned for a lingering look at the sea. A strong young moon rode serenely in the sky and struck a path of light across the restless waters. Along this shimmering way the eyes of her companion followed hers.
“I can tell you what that colour is, at least. Do you remember the blue, transparent substance that used to be on favours at children's parties?” he asked. “There were caps inside of them, and crackers.”
“I believe you are a poet, after all,” she said.
A shadow fell across the flags. Honora did not move.
“Hello, Chiltern,” said Cuthbert. “I thought you were playing bridge...”
“You haven't looked at me once to-night,” he said, when Cuthbert had gone in.
She was silent.