They trooped out of the room together. Thomson kept close behind Ralph Conyers and Captain Granet, who were talking no more of submarines, however, but of the last ballet at the Empire. Geraldine came towards them as they entered the drawing-room.
“Hugh,” she begged, passing her arm through his, “would you mind playing bridge? The Mulliners are going on, and mother does miss her rubber so. And we can talk afterwards, if you like,” she added.
Thomson glanced across the room to where Granet was chatting with some other guests. Young Conyers for the moment was nowhere to be seen.
“I’ll play, with pleasure, Geraldine,” he assented, “but I want to have a word with Ralph first.”
“He’s at the telephone,” she said. “The Admiralty rang up about something and he is talking to them. I’ll tell him, if you like, when he comes up.”
“If you’ll do that,” Thomson promised, “I won’t keep him a minute.”
The little party settled down to their game—Lady Conyers, Sir Charles Hankins,—a celebrated lawyer,—another man and Thomson. Geraldine, with Olive Moreton and Captain Granet, found a sofa in a remote corner of the room and the trio were apparently talking nonsense with great success. Presently Ralph reappeared and joined them.
“Hugh wants to speak to you,” Geraldine told him.
Ralph glanced at the little bridge-table and made a grimace.
“Hugh can wait,” he declared, as he passed his arm through Olive’s. “This is my last night on shore for heaven knows how long and I am going to take Olive off to see my photographs of the Scorpion. Old Wilcock handed them to me out of his drawer this afternoon.”