"I suppose that's the best way to describe dragging folks out of hell," said Peter. "It's not always their own fault that they are there, you know. To my way of thinking, unfortunate products, like Clifford, and the Vane woman, are less worthy of censure than you with your Burmese kid."
Cyprian made no reply to this. His close-lipped control appealed to Peter as could have neither anger nor attempted self-justification.
"Never mind," he added, "you're a damned good fellow, Cyprian, and you'll be relieved to hear that I'm not going to shove my oar in any more. As Ferlie's only brother I considered I had no choice but to tackle you. It's a rotten business, and I am more sorry than I can say for you both; but, after all, I'm not Ferlie's confessor."
"That's all right, old chap," said Cyprian.
So Peter, though tempted to facetiousness, was inclined to be encouraging about the island.
"We could leave them the small motor-boat," he suggested to Maddock. "We never use it, Uncle Rick."
"Ferlie has wheedled more than half the contents of the yacht out of me already," grumbled the Colonel, who was immensely in his element as the only genuine man-of-the-world in the party untrammelled by Creed or Convention. "Look round my cabin, Sterne; mark down what suits you. Don't mind me."
"I wonder," said Peter, "when we call to fetch them, three months hence, before the monsoon sets in, whether they'll be tattooed all over and chastely clothed in the Nicobarese Sunday gear of half a coco-nut and an old top-hat?"
Thus, by a maintained flow of chaff, the sense of incipient strain in the atmosphere was dispelled.
Cyprian regarded Ferlie ruefully when she first broke the news.