“The King,” he said quietly.
“The King,” murmured the others. “Yes, I got my leave out of that night’s work, too,” said the destroyer captain. “Rather damaged our classic profile, and had to dock for a few days to straighten the stem....”
Beyond the open bay windows the blue dusk was closing down on the yews and scented borders. The long, deep drone of a cockchafer went past and died to nothing.
The host sent the decanters on their second round and leaned forward a little in his chair.
“It’s been jolly nice to see you dear old things again,” he said, “and talk over the War, as we swore we would some day when we were kids.” He paused. “And now there’s a toast I vote we drink. He—he’d have been here if this dinner had been a month earlier. As it is——” he raised his glass—“we can only drink to his memory.”
No name was mentioned. They nodded; drank gravely, in silence and perfect comprehension.
Brakespear, facing his host, broke the silence. “I saw him a couple of days ago,” he said quietly.
“Eh?” ejaculated Jerome sharply.
“But,” said Foster, “his boat was lost—oh, more than three weeks ago.”
Brakespear nodded. “I know. But they salved her and brought her in, near where my ship was lying. Dacre—the submarine one, not his brother—went on board to make an examination and—and take the bodies out. So I went too, because he and I—I was very fond of him....” Brakespear reached for the cigar lighter.