His wife filled the cup and looked at him across the flowers and china. But her husband had slipped into one of his musing silences and sat with knitted brows, drumming his fingers on the white cloth. She knew only too well those imperturbable abstractions, and the futility of asking questions. She was one of those women who have learned to wait as men rarely learn any lesson.
The meal finished and the Commander rose, filling a pipe. “Lemme strike your match,” said his son.
“He’ll burn his fingers,” said his mother.
“Yes,” said the man. “That’s the only way he’ll ever learn to respect matches.” He held out the box: the match was duly struck and the pipe lit without catastrophe. When the pipe was drawing properly he turned and watched his wife’s profile as she moved about the homely disorder of the breakfast-table. His eyes were full of a great tenderness.
“Like to run up to town to-morrow?” he said casually.
She turned swiftly. “London!” she exclaimed. “Oh, Bill! Rather extravagant, isn’t it?”
“Um.... No. I don’t think so. I’ve got to go—on duty. You’d better come too. It’s only for the day. We might lunch somewhere where there’s a band ... buy a hat, p’r’aps....”
“Me too!” said John Willie.
“Once upon a time,” said his father, “I was in a ship where there was a man who said ‘Me too’ every time any one ordered a drink.”
“Was he a firsty man?”