“He does not, I presume, receive visitors,” he said, as they left the tee after the third drive.
“Never,” Wolfenden answered decisively. “He suffers a good deal in various ways, and apart from that he is very much absorbed in the collection of some statistics connected with a hobby of his. He does not see even his oldest friends.”
Mr. Sabin was obviously interested.
“Many years ago,” he said, “I met your father at Alexandria. He was then in command of the Victoria. He would perhaps scarcely recollect me now, but at the time he made me promise to visit him if ever I was in England. It must be—yes, it surely must be nearly fifteen years ago.”
“I am afraid,” Wolfenden remarked, watching the flight of his ball after a successful brassy shot, “that he would have forgotten all about it by now. His memory has suffered a good deal.”
Mr. Sabin addressed his own ball, and from a bad lie sent it flying a hundred and fifty yards with a peculiar, jerking shot which Wolfenden watched with envy.
“You must have a wonderful eye,” he remarked, “to hit a ball with a full swing lying like that. Nine men out of ten would have taken an iron.”
Mr. Sabin shrugged his shoulders. He did not wish to talk golf.
“I was about to remark,” he said, “that your father had then the reputation of, and impressed me as being, the best informed man with regard to English naval affairs with whom I ever conversed.”
“He was considered an authority, I believe,” Wolfenden admitted.