"We may now," Sogrange remarked, buttoning up his ulster, and stretching himself out to the full extent of his steamer chair, "consider ourselves at sea. I trust, my friend, that you are feeling quite comfortable."
Peter, Baron de Grost, lying at his ease upon a neighbouring chair, with a pillow behind his head, a huge fur coat around his body, and a rug over his feet, had all the appearance of being very comfortable indeed. His reply, however, was a little short—almost peevish.
"I am comfortable enough for the present, thank you. Heaven knows how long it will last!"
Sogrange waved his arm towards the great uneasy plain of blue sea, the showers of foam leaping into the sunlight, away beyond the disappearing coasts of France.
"Last," he repeated. "For eight days, I hope. Consider, my dear Baron! What could be more refreshing, more stimulating to our jaded nerves than this? Think of the December fogs you have left behind, the cold, driving rain, the puddles in the street, the grey skies—London, in short, at her ugliest and worst."
"That is all very well," Peter protested; "but I have left several other things behind, too."
"As, for instance?" Sogrange inquired genially.
"My wife," Peter informed him. "Violet objects very much to these abrupt separations. This week, too, I was shooting at Saxthorpe, and I had also several other engagements of a pleasant nature. Besides, I have reached that age when I find it disconcerting to be called out of bed in the middle of the night to answer a long-distance telephone call, and told to embark on an American liner leaving Southampton early the next morning. It may be your idea of a pleasure-trip. It isn't mine."
Sogrange was amused. His smile, however, was hidden. Only the tip of his cigarette was visible.
"Anything else?"