"Ah, but you see, Mother, he hasn't—"
"Hasn't what—Fifteen two, fifteen four—Well, Kate?"
"Has never been quite so late home on his last night of leave, has he, Mother?"
"That is true—one for his nob. I really think they ought to make him a captain, for he seems to be an exceedingly useful officer. He went away last Thursday, as I understood, on some business connected with a wreck. I do hope none of the poor men were drowned. I often think of my husband, Mr. Barracombe, on the other side of the world, going about among those dreadful coral reefs, and I wish he would retire and live safely at home. I could never understand what he finds interesting in bits of stone and things of that sort, but of course he is a very distinguished man."
So the good lady prattled on, placidly unconscious of her nearness to the border-line between comedy and tragedy.
The clock struck eleven.
"Thank you, Mr. Barracombe; I have enjoyed the game," said Mrs. Smith. "Charley will soon be here."
"Let us go to the door," said Kate. "Perhaps we shall hear him."
"Mr. Barracombe will go with you, Kate; I am a little afraid of the night air. Wrap yourself up."
The two went to the conservatory door, overlooking the park. The sky was clear, the air was still; not a sound was to be heard. Every now and then a broad flash of light fleetingly illuminated the sky; it was no doubt the searchlight at Spithead.