“How true!” he went on murmuring to himself. “Here in London a man or a woman need only dress in the height of fashion in clothes they never pay for, and hire a big car and pretend they own it, and be seen in good society, and the world bows down before them and craves to do them homage. Look at Stapleton and that young ass Archie La Planta, and a dozen others--to say nothing of Jessica.” “Ah, Jessica!” CHAPTER XII. YOOTHA’S PRESENTIMENT. Meanwhile Yootha Hagerston was secretly becoming more and more enamored of Captain Preston. It was the first time in her life she had ever really cared for any man; until now she had followed the fashion prevalent among many women of pretending to consider love and deep affection “all nonsense” and the hall-mark of a weak intelligence. She had come to know his movements and had discovered some of his haunts, with the result that she rarely missed an opportunity of meeting him “by chance.” And, though he would not have admitted it, even to himself, Preston had for some weeks past been singularly attracted by Yootha. He had liked her that day he had met her for the first time, at lunch at the Ritz and afterwards at Jessica’s musical At Home, though the woman who had most interested him then had been Yootha’s friend, Cora Hartsilver. But now it was different. There was something about the girl, apart from her looks, which appealed to him. What it was he could not have explained. It might have been her sympathetic nature, or her personality, or her temperament; in any case he felt strangely drawn towards her every time they met. 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.”