"She's the best-looking woman I've seen here since the war began," responded Greaves. "When I was a young man," he went on wickedly, drawing at his pipe, "I always went in for widows. There is always so much more to 'em."
"In this case," Sinclair answered, "the widow seems to be bearing her sorrow pretty lightly!"
"Old husbands are soon forgotten by young wives," observed Greaves philosophically. "When I was in Minorca, in the old Benbow, in '72 or '73," he began, and told Sinclair with never-ending gusto one of his somewhat highly-spiced stories of youthful adventures of his midship days.
In the meantime Parkson conducted Mrs. Beecher Monmouth down to her waiting motor-car. They descended the steep hillside, and Parkson still helped her on every occasion. The hired Ford car had been turned in the narrow road. Parkson, with a glance at his watch, helped her into the vehicle, daringly stepped in beside her, and placed the dust-cover over both their knees.
"I can have a five minutes' drive with you and get back by seven," he announced.
"But I didn't invite you, Mr. Parkson."
"Your eyes invited me," he returned audaciously, and under the dust-cover he slid his fingers towards hers.
There ensued a palpitating moment, then Mrs. Beecher Monmouth turned her radiantly beautiful face slightly towards him; under long, curved lashes she gave him a sidelong glance. Then, so that the chauffeur should not overhear, she whispered, framing the words with her lips:
"You bad, bad, naughty officer!"
But she did not remove her hand, which was now enclosed in his.