"Could I come in and drink it on my way home in the evening?" Nevil said. "You see, I'm on my way to lunch with my prospective father-in-law and it being Sunday there is a ritual. One must be there for the warming-up exercises."
"But of course come in on your way home," Marion said. "We shall be delighted. How shall we know it is you? For the gate, I mean." She was pouring sherry and handing it to Robert.
"Do you know morse?"
"Yes, but don't tell me you do."
"Why not?"
"You look a most unlikely morse addict."
"Oh, when I was fourteen I was going to sea, and I acquired in the heat of my ambition a lot of incidental idiocies. Morse was one of them. I shall hoot the initials of your beautiful name on the horn, when I come. Two longs and three shorts. I must fly. The thought of talking to you tonight will support me through luncheon at the Palace."
"Won't Rosemary be any support?" Robert asked, overcome by his baser self.
"I shouldn't think so. On Sundays Rosemary is a daughter in her father's house. It is a role that does not become her. Au revoir, Mrs. Sharpe. Don't let Robert drink all the sherry."
"And when," Robert heard Marion ask as she went with him to the door, "did you decide not to go to sea?"