“You should be a fine singer,” said Watkins, clearing his throat again.
“Think so?” asked St. Jermyn, indifferent to praise.
“I do—indeed I do—don’t you?”
“Yes, I do, of course.”
“You? Oh, I see you are joking.”
“I never felt less like joking—d’you know what a storm here can mean?”
“Not particularly here,” said Mr. Watkins.
“I thought not. Shout!”
Watkins shouted. Marcus stood in the fine drizzling rain peering out to sea—and saw nothing.
Again St. Jermyn shouted.