Phil sat on a skylight, his hands clasped over one knee, his eyes on the streaming wake. But Rod knew he was not looking at the bubbles in the wash, or at anything concretely visible. It was too much the concentrated look a man bestows upon things afar, remote, but vivid in the eye of the mind.
"Cheer up," he said abruptly. "The worst is yet to come."
"I wonder?" Phil replied absently. A faint smile replaced that set expression. "I suppose the worst always is ahead—only unseen."
"What's up?" Rod demanded. "Why this last minute dash, and the abstracted air?"
Phil stared at the deck.
"Do I show such outward signs of inner disturbance?" he inquired whimsically. "If I do it was a wise move to leave. I didn't think I gave myself away openly as a bad loser."
Rod said nothing. He waited. He knew his brother.
"Laska Wall's going to marry Grove," Phil said with a simulation of casualness that would have deceived any one but Rod. "I had the pleasure of wishing her much happiness last night."
Rod could think of nothing appropriate to say. He seemed to understand quite clearly. And he couldn't feel anything but resentment against a girl who, having a choice between the two, preferred Grove. Laska fell a long way in his estimation in those few seconds.
"Well," he ventured at last, "I should worry. She's a nice girl. But there are plenty of nice girls."