He held her hand in his firm, sun-tanned grasp, looking down compassionately:
"Awf'lly sorry," he said as though he meant it.
The old lady peered up at him:
"You're sailing to-morrow?"
"To-morrow," he said, gravely.
"When do you return?"
"I have made no plans to return."
"You mean to say that you've given up the fight?"
"There was never any fight," he said.
Mrs. Sprowl scowled: