“Was it a good game?” Graham asked.
“Quite good. Madame Beronelli and I lost. She is enthusiastic, but inefficient.”
“Then, except for the enthusiasm, my absence made no difference.”
Mathis smiled a little nervously. “I hope that your headache is better.”
“Much better, thank you.”
It had begun to rain in earnest now. Mathis stared out gloomily into the gathering darkness. “Filthy!” he commented.
“Yes.”
There was a pause. Then:
“I was afraid,” said Mathis suddenly, “that you did not wish to play with us. I could not blame you if such were the case. This morning you were good enough to make an apology. The true apology was due from me to you.”
He was not looking at Graham. “I am quite sure …” Graham began to mumble, but Mathis went on as if he were addressing the seagulls following the ship. “I do not always remember,” he said bitterly, “that what to some people is good or bad is to others simply boring. My wife has led me to put too much faith in the power of words.”