“What I particularly admired about him,” Mr. Sabin continued, “was the absence of that cocksureness which sometimes, I am afraid, almost blinds the judgment of your great naval officers. I have heard him even discuss the possibility of an invasion of England with the utmost gravity. He admitted that it was far from improbable.”
“My father’s views,” Wolfenden said, “have always been pessimistic as regards the actual strength of our navy and coast defences. I believe he used to make himself a great nuisance at the Admiralty.”
“He has ceased now, I suppose,” Mr. Sabin remarked, “to take much interest in the matter?”
“I can scarcely say that,” Wolfenden answered. “His interest, however, has ceased to be official. I daresay you have heard that he was in command of the Channel Fleet at the time of the terrible disaster in the Solent. He retired almost immediately afterwards, and we fear that his health will never altogether recover from the shock.”
There was a short intermission in the conversation. Wolfenden had sliced his ball badly from the sixth tee, and Mr. Sabin, having driven as usual with almost mathematical precision, their ways for a few minutes lay apart. They came together, however, on the putting-green, and had a short walk to the next tee.
“That was a very creditable half to you,” Mr. Sabin remarked.
“My approach,” Wolfenden admitted, “was a lucky one.”
“It was a very fine shot,” Mr. Sabin insisted. “The spin helped you, of course, but you were justified in allowing for that, especially as you seem to play most of your mashie shots with a cut. What were we talking about? Oh, I remember of course. It was about your father and the Solent catastrophe. Admiral Deringham was not concerned with the actual disaster in any way, was he?”
Wolfenden shook his hand.