"No. She didn't die either." Larpent's eyes came slowly upwards to the mocking eyes above them. "For all I know she may be living now," he said.
Saltash's grin became a grimace. "Oh, heavens, Larpent! And you've had indigestion ever since? How long ago is it? Twenty years?"
"About that," said Larpent.
"Heavens!" said Saltash again. "I should like to see the woman who could hold me after twenty years!"
"So should I," said Larpent dryly.
Saltash snapped his fingers. "She doesn't exist, my good fellow! But if she did—by Jove, what a world it would be!"
Larpent grunted sardonically. "It wouldn't be large enough to hold you, my lord."
Saltash stretched his arms wide. "Well, I'm going ashore to-night. Who knows what the gods may send? Wish me luck!"
Larpent surveyed the restless figure with a sort of stony humour. "I wish you a safe return," he said.
Saltash laughed and went away along the deck with a monkey-like spring that was curiously characteristic of him. There was nothing of the sailor's steady poise about him.