"Bless me," said Sir William helplessly, "I don't know. I never remember her saying so. Do you think that would account for—for her present mood? Women are such curious beings——"
"I know he's fearfully gone on her," said James, "but he lost a foot early in the war. He hasn't been near her since."
"Why not?" asked the Scientist vaguely.
"Oh, because—because he's fearfully sensitive about it. And he's frightfully in love with her. You see, a thing like that tells enormously when a fellow's in love."
"Does it?" enquired Sir William. "Well, granted that your theory is correct, I fail to see what I am to do. I can't kidnap this young man and carry him to my house like the alien visitor you once brought to disturb my peaceful slumbers."
"Ah," said James, "Crabpots!" He chuckled retrospectively.
"If he has really developed a neurotic view of his injury, as you imply," continued the older man, "it's no use my inviting him, because he would only refuse to come."
"You'll have to work it somehow," replied his nephew. "Sea voyages aren't safe enough just now—we'd never forgive ourselves if we let Cecily go and anything happened to her—or Podgie either," he added grimly.
By twos and threes the members of the Mess had risen from the table and drifted into the ante-room to play bridge, or to their cabins, there to write letters, read, or occupy themselves in wood-carving and kindred pursuits. At a small table in the comer of the long Mess the officers of the Second Dog Watch had finished a belated meal, and were yarning in low voices over their port.
James and his uncle alone remained seated at the long table.