“At least, that’s what you’ll try to do,” Quentin said dryly. “Actually, the guy has some forty soldiers to help him.”
Morecombre sniffed. “Oh, I guess we could manage them together. I wouldn’t like to try it on my own, but, with you, I guess we’d get by.”
“Sure,” Quentin said dubiously. “But all the same, I wish she hadn’t turned up like this.”
He went back to the window and continued to stare into the deserted streets. Morecombre joined him, and for a while they stood silent, watching the sun gradually fall behind the horizon.
3
In the evening it became cooler. The slight breeze coming in off the bay stirred the net curtains of the verandah window.
Morecombre sat by the window, smoking a pipe, his eyes never shifting from the deserted waterfront. Quentin lay on the divan with his eyes shut, and an open book lying across his chest. Myra sat away from them, trying to read, but every sound from outside, and every step in the corridor, made her stiffen.
They had just finished a snack meal from the assortment of canned food, and Quentin was mentally calculating how long that small store would last them. He opened his eyes and glanced across at Myra. She was looking away from him, unaware that he was watching her. He thought she looked absurdly young in the short, black silk dress Anita had lent her. Her long legs in shiny black stockings and the touch of white under her dress, which he could glimpse from the angle he was lying, brought a frown to his face. She was too good, he decided. Her fair hair, like a sheet of shining metal, reflected in the soft light of the reading-lamp. He liked her long, thin fingers, and the curve of her arms. He studied her face thoughtfully. The hard curve of her mouth puzzled him. The expression on her face made him grope for the right word—disillusion. Yes, that was it.
He found himself wondering what had happened on the previous night. Why she was unescorted? How she came to miss the ship. All day she had been very silent. Obviously she was grateful to them for offering her hospitality, but there it ended. She had erected a barrier which neither Morecombre nor he could break through. In the long hours of waiting and listening for something to happen, both the men would have been glad to have been on their own. This constant small talk that led nowhere and social politeness which neither found to his mood had become irksome. Quentin found himself wishing that she would go away, but she had sat quietly in the chair all the long afternoon, speaking when spoken to, but otherwise retaining a brooding silence.
Both the men had given up finally in despair, and for the past hour there was a heavy strained silence, broken only by the rustle of a turning page and the creak of a chair, as Morecombre shifted from one position to another.