"This is where I always come," said Eileen Cavendish. She stopped and panted for breath. "Ouf! I'm getting fat and short-winded. How long is it since you've seen your husband?"
Betty considered. "Three months and seventeen days," was the reply.
Her companion nodded.
"It's rotten, isn't it? But now—at times like this, I almost feel as if it's—worth it, I was going to say; but I suppose it's hardly that. I always vowed I'd never marry a sailor, and ever since I did I've felt sorry for all the women with other kinds of husbands…. Bill is such a dear!"
They found seats in the lee of a stack of peat and sat down side by side to watch the distant entrance. A faint grey haze beyond the headlands on either side of the mouth of the harbour held the outer sea in mystery.
"There's nothing in sight," said Betty.
"No," said the other, "but there will be, presently. You wait." She put her elbows on her knees and rested her face in the cup of her two hands. "You haven't got used to waiting yet," she continued. "It seems to have made up half my life since I met Bill. I had a little daughter once, and it didn't matter so much then…. But she died, the mite…"
No Battleships had emerged from the blue-grey curtain of the mist when lunch-time came; nothing moved across the surface of the empty harbour, and they descended the hill to share the meal in Betty's room.
"Perhaps they won't be in till after tea," suggested Betty. "Perhaps the fog has delayed them."
"Perhaps," said the other.