Gorman glanced at Kalliope who was at the moment placing a plate before her mistress. The girl grinned at him in a friendly way. She was quite aware that she was the subject of conversation.
“It strikes me, von Moll,” said Gorman, “that your navy hasn’t come very well out of its first regular sea battle.”
Von Moll’s face hardened disagreeably. It was an outrageous thing that an Irishman, a mere civilian, who apparently had no right to wear a uniform of any kind, should poke fun at the Imperial navy. He wished very much to make some reply which would crush Gorman and leave him writhing like a worm. Unfortunately it is very difficult to make that kind of reply to a man who insists on laughing when serious subjects are under discussion. Gorman, still watching von Moll closely, felt pleased.
“I hope the Press won’t get hold of the story,” he said. “Just imagine the headlines. ‘Grave International Crisis.’ ‘Naval Encounter in the Cyrenian Sea.’ ‘Imperial Gunboat’—they’d be sure to say gunboat, you know—‘attacked by a girl.’ If it had been a man! But a girl! However, I won’t mention the matter. If you fix that fellow up with a set of false teeth I daresay nobody will ever hear about the business.”
Von Moll was angry; but he was no more ready than he had been at first with a suitable answer for Gorman. He was dimly aware that if he gave way to his feelings, if he even allowed his anger to appear, this grey-haired, bantering Irishman would be gratified. He had just sense enough to realize that he must make some pretence at laughing. It was, of course, impossible for him to regard disrespectful remarks about the German navy as a joke, but he succeeded in giving a kind of hoarse cackle.
Smith was conscious of a want of harmony in the party. He became most vigilantly attentive to the two men on whom he waited. Von Moll drank sherry with his soup and two glasses of hock while he ate his fish. Smith poured him out a glass of champagne. For Gorman he opened a bottle of Irish whisky. Then he handed round an entrée, a fine example of his powers as a cook.
The Queen, too, was aware that von Moll’s temper had been ruffled. She turned to him with a smile and made a banal, but quite harmless remark.
“I think Salissa is a perfectly sweet island,” she said, “don’t you?”
Von Moll thought it an exceedingly dull hole and wished to say so plainly. Perhaps it was the sight of the champagne foaming pleasantly in his glass which made him restrain himself.
“No doubt it is pleasant as a holiday resort,” he said. “For a few weeks one might find life agreeable enough; but after that——”