“Do you know, Willy,” said Mrs. Hay Denver one evening as she stood behind her husband’s chair, with her hand upon his shoulder, “I think sometimes that Harold is not quite happy.”
“He looks happy, the young rascal,” answered the Admiral, pointing with his cigar. It was after dinner, and through the open French window of the dining-room a clear view was to be had of the tennis court and the players. A set had just been finished, and young Charles Westmacott was hitting up the balls as high as he could send them in the middle of the ground. Doctor Walker and Mrs. Westmacott were pacing up and down the lawn, the lady waving her racket as she emphasized her remarks, and the Doctor listening with slanting head and little nods of agreement. Against the rails at the near end Harold was leaning in his flannels talking to the two sisters, who stood listening to him with their long dark shadows streaming down the lawn behind them. The girls were dressed alike in dark skirts, with light pink tennis blouses and pink bands on their straw hats, so that as they stood with the soft red of the setting sun tinging their faces, Clara, demure and quiet, Ida, mischievous and daring, it was a group which might have pleased the eye of a more exacting critic than the old sailor.
“Yes, he looks happy, mother,” he repeated, with a chuckle. “It is not so long ago since it was you and I who were standing like that, and I don’t remember that we were very unhappy either. It was croquet in our time, and the ladies had not reefed in their skirts quite so taut. What year would it be? Just before the commission of the Penelope.”
Mrs. Hay Denver ran her fingers through his grizzled hair. “It was when you came back in the Antelope, just before you got your step.
“Ah, the old Antelope! What a clipper she was! She could sail two points nearer the wind than anything of her tonnage in the service. You remember her, mother. You saw her come into Plymouth Bay. Wasn’t she a beauty?”
“She was indeed, dear. But when I say that I think that Harold is not happy I mean in his daily life. Has it never struck you how thoughtful, he is at times, and how absent-minded?”
“In love perhaps, the young dog. He seems to have found snug moorings now at any rate.”
“I think that it is very likely that you are right, Willy,” answered the mother seriously. “But with which of them?”
“I cannot tell.”
“Well, they are very charming girls, both of them. But as long as he hangs in the wind between the two it cannot be serious. After all, the boy is four-and-twenty, and he made five hundred pounds last year. He is better able to marry than I was when I was lieutenant.”
“I think that we can see which it is now,” remarked the observant mother. Charles Westmacott had ceased to knock the tennis balls about, and was chatting with Clara Walker, while Ida and Harold Denver were still talking by the railing with little outbursts of laughter. Presently a fresh set was formed, and Doctor Walker, the odd man out, came through the wicket gate and strolled up the garden walk.
“Good evening, Mrs. Hay Denver,” said he, raising his broad straw hat. “May I come in?”
“Good evening, Doctor! Pray do!”
“Try one of these,” said the Admiral, holding out his cigar-case. “They are not bad. I got them on the Mosquito Coast. I was thinking of signaling to you, but you seemed so very happy out there.”
“Mrs. Westmacott is a very clever woman,” said the Doctor, lighting the cigar. “By the way, you spoke about the Mosquito Coast just now. Did you see much of the Hyla when you were out there?”
“No such name on the list,” answered the seaman, with decision. “There’s the Hydra, a harbor defense turret-ship, but she never leaves the home waters.”
The Doctor laughed. “We live in two separate worlds,” said he. “The Hyla is the little green tree frog, and Beale has founded some of his views on protoplasm upon the appearances, of its nerve cells. It is a subject in which I take an interest.”