As we wandered down from the garden paths, she gave me her opinion of the book. In the main it was appreciative. I shall always associate the scent of yellow lupin with the higher criticism.
“Of course, I don’t know anything about writing books,” she said.
“Yes?” my tone implied, or I hope it did, that she was an expert on books, and that if she was not it didn’t matter.
“But I don’t think you do your heroines well. I have just got ‘The Outsider–‘ ” (My other novel. Bastable & Kirby, 6s. Satirical. All about Society–of which I know less than I know about chicken-farming. Slated by /Times/ and /Spectator/. Well received by /London Mail/ and /Winning Post/)–“and,” continued Phyllis, “Lady Maud is exactly the same as Pamela in the ‘Manoeuvres of Arthur.’ I thought you must have drawn both characters from some one you knew.”
“No,” I said. “No. Purely imaginary.”
“I am so glad,” said Phyllis.
And then neither of us seemed to have anything to say. My knees began to tremble. I realised that the moment had arrived when my fate must be put to the touch; and I feared that the moment was premature. We cannot arrange these things to suit ourselves. I knew that the time was not yet ripe; but the magic scent of the yellow lupin was too much for me.
“Miss Derrick,” I said hoarsely.
Phyllis was looking with more intentness than the attractions of the flower justified at a rose she held in her hand. The bee hummed in the lupin.
“Miss Derrick,” I said, and stopped again.
“I say, you people,” said a cheerful voice, “tea is ready. Hullo, Garnet, how are you? That medal arrived yet from the Humane Society?”
I spun round. Mr. Tom Chase was standing at the end of the path. The only word that could deal adequately with the situation slapped against my front teeth. I grinned a sickly grin.
“Well, Tom,” said Phyllis.
And there was, I thought, just the faintest tinkle of annoyance in her voice.
…..
“I’ve been bathing,” said Mr. Chase, /a propos des bottes/.
“Oh,” I replied. “And I wish,” I added, “that you’d drowned yourself.”
But I added it silently to myself.
CHAPTER XIII
TEA AND TENNIS
“Met the professor’s late boatman on the Cob,” said Mr. Chase, dissecting a chocolate cake.
“Clumsy man,” said Phyllis. “I hope he was ashamed of himself. I shall never forgive him for trying to drown papa.”
My heart bled for Mr. Henry Hawk, that modern martyr.
“When I met him,” said Tom Chase, “he looked as if he had been trying to drown his sorrow as well.”
“I knew he drank,” said Phyllis severely, “the very first time I saw him.”
“You might have warned the professor,” murmured Mr. Chase.
“He couldn’t have upset the boat if he had been sober.”
“You never know. He may have done it on purpose.”
“Tom, how absurd.”
“Rather rough on the man, aren’t you?” I said.
“Merely a suggestion,” continued Mr. Chase airily. “I’ve been reading sensational novels lately, and it seems to me that Mr. Hawk’s cut out to be a minion. Probably some secret foe of the professor’s bribed him.”
My heart stood still. Did he know, I wondered, and was this all a roundabout way of telling me he knew?
“The professor may be a member of an Anarchist League, or something, and this is his punishment for refusing to assassinate some sportsman.”
“Have another cup of tea, Tom, and stop talking nonsense.”
Mr. Chase handed in his cup.
“What gave me the idea that the upset was done on purpose was this. I saw the whole thing from the Ware Cliff. The spill looked to me just like dozens I had seen at Malta.”
“Why do they upset themselves on purpose at Malta particularly?” inquired Phyllis.
“Listen carefully, my dear, and you’ll know more about the ways of the Navy that guards your coasts than you did before. When men are allowed on shore at Malta, the owner has a fancy to see them snugly on board again at a certain reasonable hour. After that hour any Maltese policeman who brings them aboard gets one sovereign, cash. But he has to do all the bringing part of it on his own. Consequence is, you see boats rowing out to the ship, carrying men who have overstayed their leave; and when they get near enough, the able-bodied gentleman in custody jumps to his feet, upsets the boat, and swims for the gangway. The policemen, if they aren’t drowned–they sometimes are–race him, and whichever gets there first wins. If it’s the policeman, he gets his sovereign. If it’s the sailor, he is considered to have arrived not in a state of custody and gets off easier. What a judicious remark that was of the governor of North Carolina to the governor of South Carolina, respecting the length of time between drinks. Just one more cup, please, Phyllis.”