The cloud above extended a great promontory across the sun. It only lay there for a moment, yet that was enough to summon the lurking coldness from the earth.
“Does he hate his father?” said Widdrington, who had not known. “Oh, good!”
“But his father’s dead. He will say it doesn’t count.”
“Still, it’s something. Do you hate yours?”
Ansell did not reply. Rickie said: “I say, I wonder whether one ought to talk like this?”
“About hating dead people?”
“Yes—”
“Did you hate your mother?” asked Widdrington.
Rickie turned crimson.
“I don’t see Hornblower’s such a rotter,” remarked the other man, whose name was James.