John looked up quickly, realizing whither he had been led. Their eyes met. “I don’t think Trafalgar would make me happy,” he said.
He picked up the red lamp that was swinging within a few inches of the cabin floor and placed it on his knees. Hartington settled himself deeply in his great wicker chair.
“If that’s so,” he said, “you ought not to be in the Service. You ought to get out of it, and try to write that great book.”
John put the lantern from him hurriedly and rose. “Do you think I don’t know that?” he demanded, with a tremor in his voice.
“You didn’t know it sixty seconds ago.”
“I did. Good-night.”
“Good-night.”
John paused with one foot outside the cabin door.
“Do you want to be an Admiral yourself?” he challenged.
“That question does not arise,” Hartington answered.