"No, I think not," replied Philip. Then he added awkwardly, "You understand the situation?"
Julius Mablethorpe nodded.
"Yes," he said, "I do, and I know you are right. There is a power of difference between giving one's best and one's second best. You can't compromise over the really big things of life: with them it must be everything or nothing. You are doing the right thing. But we shall miss you, my son Philip,—all of us!"
So our knight rode away, exceeding sorrowful. His departure was mourned by many, notably one,—but not by Mr. Derek Rayner.
CHAPTER XXVIII
A BRAND FROM THE BURNING
The liner Bosphorus, after a comfortable nap of some eight days in the Mersey, was making a reluctant effort to tear herself from the land of her birth and face an unfriendly ocean upon her seventy-eighth voyage to New York. Motive power for the time being was supplied by four fussy tugboats, three of which were endeavouring to speed the parting guest by valiant pushings in the neighbourhood of her rudder, while the fourth initiated a turning movement at her starboard bow. An occasional rumble from the engine-room announced that the tugs would soon have no excuse for further officiousness.
The cabin passengers were leaning over the rails of the upper deck, surveying the busy landing-stage. They were chiefly males—their wives were down below, engaged in the unprofitable task of endeavouring to intimidate stewardesses—and were for the most part Americans. Philip stood apart, watching the variegated farewells of the crowd.