“Why on earth should they think that?”
Mr. Kuvetli looked sideways. “You ask them to have to drink three times in five minutes. You ask them once. They say no. You ask them again. They say no again. You ask again. They do not understand English hospitality.”
“I see. I’m afraid that I was thinking of something else. I must apologise.”
“Please!” Mr. Kuvetli was overcome. “It is not necessary to apologise for hospitality. But”-he glanced hesitantly at the clock-“it is now nearly time for dinner. You allow me later to have this drink you so kindly offer?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And you will excuse me please, now?”
“By all means.”
When Mr. Kuvetli had gone, Graham stood up. Yes, he’d had just one drink too many on an empty stomach. He went out on deck.
The starlit sky was hung with small smoky clouds. In the distance were the lights of the Italian coast. He stood there for a moment letting the icy wind sting his face. In a minute or two the gong would sound for dinner. He dreaded the approaching meal as a sick man dreads the approach of the surgeon with a probe. He would sit, as he had sat at luncheon, listening to Haller’s monologues and to the Beronellis whispering behind their misery, forcing food down his throat to his unwilling stomach, conscious all the time of the man opposite to him-of why he was there and of what he stood for.
He turned round and leaned against a stanchion. With his back to the deck he found himself constantly looking over his shoulder to make sure that he was alone. He felt more at ease with no deck space behind him.