"I should have preferred their coming next week," Sir Andrew went on, a little wearily. "We should be under full work then. We are nearly clear now, and the naval mechanics are replacing the civil men next week. It's been hard work for us all. I shall be glad when everything has settled down again."
Ruxton glanced round at the speaker. There was a flash of anxiety in his eyes. It was the first time he had ever heard his father complain of the arduous nature of his work. A wave of contrition swept over him.
"I feel I've left too much on your shoulders, Dad," he exclaimed. "I'm afraid I've been very selfish. I've burdened you with the responsibility of this thing, and given you no support. Somehow, I never thought—and you have never complained."
"Tut, tut, boy," his father retorted, in his gruff, hearty way. "I have yet to learn that I am too old for my work. It's work I've been born and bred to. Without it I should be a decaying man. Don't think of it. Your work is far more responsible, far more harassing. You are among those active thinkers whose life's work is the welfare of our country. Leave me to Dorby. Mark out the work you demand from me, and rest assured it will be thoroughly carried out. I haven't the imaginative brain that sees into the future and formulates plans whereby that future may be safeguarded. But I can build any fleet you can plan—single-handed."
There was pride and admiration in the smile with which Ruxton listened to his father's words. But the man was serious. He knew his limitations, and he also knew his capacity. Besides, he had no intention of admitting the strain of the work in hand.
Ruxton shook his head.
"I'm not even doing that, Dad," he protested. "My time's given up to other affairs. I've simply abandoned everything for one selfish purpose."
Again came his father's sidelong glance.
"Selfish?"
"Yes; Vita. I must find her. I must help her. I must unravel the mystery of it all, or—what is the use of all that I had hoped to achieve? Dad, I no longer blind myself. I have only just awakened to life. All the hopes and longings of the past belong to a time when I still remained slumbering to the real meaning of life. Now, compared with the meaning of life which I have just awakened to, they are mere cold, meaningless products of the brain. They are nothing, simply nothing to this new vista which has just opened out to me. I doubt if you'll understand, if any one can understand but myself."