Culling turned round to reprove me for my forgetfulness.
"We Gartsides always take our own yachts when we cross the ocean to take up our new responsibilities of Empire," he explained.
"Where do you sail from?" I ask. "Marseilles?"
"Southampton. Are you coming to see me off?"
"I might. It depends whether I can get away. Half London will be there, I suppose?"
Candidly I cannot say whether my questions were prompted by what the Seraph would call a sub-conscious plan of campaign. Gartside undeniably thought they were, and met me gallantly.
"I'm eating a farewell dinner every night till I sail," he said. Then, sinking his voice, he added, "You know the yacht—she's roomy, and there will be only my two aide-de-camps and myself. No one will be seeing me off, because I haven't told them when I'm sailing. It's the usual route—anywhere in the Mediterranean. But I can't sail before Friday week."
"I see. Well," I held out my hand, "if I don't see you again, I'll say good-bye."
"Good-bye. Best of luck!" he answered, and waved a hand as I walked back and rejoined the Seraph in the hall.
He was so white that I expected every moment to see him faint, and his clothes were wet with perspiration. I, who am not so fine-drawn, had found the last hour a little trying.