“I wonder if you remember when we met in London, Mr. Davidge? It was just after the poor Lusitania was sunk.”
“So it was,” said Davidge.
“It was at Sir Joseph Webling’s. You knew he was dead, didn’t you? Or did you?”
“Yes, Miss Webling told me.”
“Oh, did she! I was curious to know.”
She cast a look past him at Marie Louise and saw that the girl was about ready to make a scene. She smiled and deferred further torture.
Mrs. Prothero supervened. She had the beautiful theory that the way to make her guests happy was to get them to talking about themselves. She tried to draw Davidge out of his shell. But he talked about her husband instead, and of the great work he had done for the navy. He turned the tables of graciousness on her. Her nod recognized the chivalry; her lips smiled with pride in her husband’s praise; her eyes glistened with an old regret made new. “He would have been useful now,” she sighed.
“He was the man who laid the keel-blocks of our new navy,” said Davidge. “The thing we haven’t got and have got to get is a merchant marine.”
He could talk of that, though he could not celebrate himself. He was still going strong when the dinner was finished.
Mrs. Prothero clung to the old custom. She took the women away with her to the drawing-room, leaving the men alone.