“Won’t you come on board?”
“No, thank you.” A sniff from Jude. “I just came over to say that we are starting.”
Ratcliffe saw that he wanted to say a lot, but was tongue-tied before the boat’s crew and the Tylers.
“Better come on board,” said he, “and have a chat in the cabin before you’re off.”
Skelton hesitated a moment, then he came. He gave Satan a nod, utterly ignored Jude, and, followed by Ratcliffe, passed below. Downstairs his manner changed. Standing and refusing a seat, as though fearing to contaminate his lily-white ducks, he began to speak as if addressing the portrait of old man Tyler.
“I can’t believe you absolutely mean to do this,” said he. “I can understand a moment’s temper, but—but—this is a joke carried too far.”
“My dear Skelton,” said the other, “what’s the good? I have the greatest respect for you, but we are dead opposites in temperament and we make each other unhappy. What’s the good of carrying it on? It’s not as if you minded being alone. You like being alone, and I like this old tub and her crew. Well, let’s each carry out our likings. I’m as happy as anything here.”
“I’m not thinking of your happiness, but of the position. You were a guest on my yacht, and you leave me like this—I need not embroider on the bare fact.”
“Do you want me to go back?”
“Not in the least,” said Skelton. “You are a free agent, I hope.”