The officers spent most of their time on board the Mauretania homeward bound in playing cards. It was early in March and still cold and foggy on deck.
“What’s worrying you?” said McCall to Hamilton, one night over the card table, after the other players had turned in for the night. McCall was dealing out “cold” hands as a fitting conclusion to the evening’s play. The cabin was thick with smoke.
“Worrying me?” Hamilton’s brows went up. “Nothing at all. I’m going to beat you again. Come on, deal me that king.”
“No, I don’t mean that. I mean something else.”
“Why, do I look downhearted?”
“Sometimes, a little. Perhaps it’s my imagination. Perhaps it’s the getting back, the uncertainty. Sometimes I feel it. I wonder how I’ll be able to get back into the old life. I wonder if I’ll fit in.”
Hamilton laughed.
“I’ll fit in beautifully. I’ll sleep until noon every day for a year. I’ll take three baths a day—steam baths, cold baths, stingy shower baths. The rest of the day I’ll lie around the house in my most disreputable clothes, reading and sleeping.”
McCall stopped dealing the cards and leaned back in his chair. “Well, I won’t get up for any reveille, Hamilton, but I’m going to work when I get back.”
“Going to write the great American novel?”