Cazalet shook his head. "None who would look on herself in that light," he interrupted. It was all he said, but once more Toye was regarding him as shrewdly as when the night was younger, and the littleness of the world had not yet made them confidant and boon companion.
Eight bells actually struck before their great talk ended and Cazalet swore that he missed the "watches aft, sir!" of the sailing-vessel ten years before; and recalled how they had never changed watch without putting the ship about, his last time in the bay.
"Say!" exclaimed Hilton Toye, knitting his brows over some nebulous recollection of his own. "I seem to have heard of you and some of your yarns before. Didn't you spend nights in a log-hut miles and miles from any other human being?"
It was as they were turning in at last, but the question spoiled a yawn for Cazalet.
"Sometimes, at one of our out-stations," said he, looking puzzled.
"I've seen your photograph," said Toye, regarding him with a more critical stare. "But it was with a beard."
"I had it off when I was ashore the other day," said Cazalet. "I always meant to, before the end of the voyage."
"I see. It was a Miss Macnair showed me that photograph—Miss Blanche Macnair lives in a little house down there near your old home. I judge hers is another old home that's been broken up since your day."
"They've all got married," said Cazalet.