“I’m sorry. I oughtn’t to fill all my letter to you with grousing. The Service is a fine service, and Peter shall go into it if you’ll trust him to Commanders even fiercer than myself. But we shall have to talk it over about Peter. I’m not quite sure that the Navy is the best place. Your father was an artist, and if any of that has come through to Peter—well, we eat artists. I know you want it—but then you know the Navy ashore, and you have a husband who is going to be an admiral, haven’t you? Do you know anything of the Jesuits of old time and their methods? I feel rather like them sometimes. But then, of course, the Service is a really fine ‘end’—that makes all the difference.
“When I come home....”
The midshipman of the watch tapped at the door. “Eight bells, sir.”
“Sound off!”
The bugle sounded. The pen worked quicker now. The last four words were crossed out.
“... I’ll write again. I want to get this letter ashore. I’m sending in an extra boat after Quarters. Quarters is sounding off now. I must go.”
He thrust on his cap and walked out on to the quarter-deck. Here the Marines and the Quarter-deck Division were falling in.
“Where’s the midshipman of the Quarter-deck Division?... Mr. Ollenor, in future you will come up from the Gunroom in time to see that your Division falls in smartly to the bugle. Look at them! They’re a damned disgrace!—all talking when I came.... Don’t answer me. Go to them.”
The Commander was shouting. He swung round on his heel to cover a queer smile. The sergeant-major, who missed nothing, wondered what joke there was; but he knew nothing of the Commander’s letter.