“Next! ‘Damnation to all neutrals!’” Maddingham went on. “Amen! Amen!” they answered between gulps that heralded the sole à la Colbert. Maddingham picked up the menu. “Suprème of chicken,” he read loudly. “Filet béarnaise, Woodcock and Richebourg ’74, Pêches Melba, Croûtes Baron. I couldn’t have improved on it myself; though one might,” he went on--“one _might_ have substituted quail _en casserole_ for the woodcock.” “Then there would have been no reason for the Burgundy,” said Tegg with equal gravity. “You’re right,” Maddingham replied. The foreign actress shrugged her shoulders. “What _can_ you do with people like that?” she said to her companion. “And yet _I_’ve been singing to ’em for a fortnight.” “I left it all to Henri,” said Portson. “My Gord!” the eavesdropping woman whispered. “Get on to that! Ain’t it typical? They leave everything to Henri in this country.” “By the way,” Tegg asked Winchmore after the fish, “where did you mount that one-pounder of yours after all?” “Midships. _Etheldreda_ won’t carry more weight forward. She’s wet enough as it is.” “Why don’t you apply for another craft?” Portson put in. “There’s a chap at Southampton just now, down with pneumonia and----” “No, thank you. I know _Etheldreda_. She’s nothing to write home about, but when she feels well she can shift a bit.” Maddingham leaned across the table. “If she does more than eleven in a flat calm,” said he, “I’ll--I’ll give you _Hilarity_.” “’Wouldn’t be found dead in _Hilarity_,” was Winchmore’s grateful reply. “You don’t mean to say you’ve taken her into real wet water, Papa? Where did it happen?” The other laughed. Maddingham’s red face turned brick colour, and the veins on the cheekbones showed blue through a blurr of short bristles. “He’s been convoying neutrals--in a tactful manner,” Tegg chuckled. Maddingham filled his glass and scowled at Tegg. “Yes,” he said, “and here’s special damnation to me Lords of the Admiralty. A more muddle-headed set of brass-bound apes----” “My! My! My!” Winchmore chirruped soothingly. “It don’t seem to have done you any good, Papa. Who were you conveyancing?” Maddingham snapped out a ship’s name and some details of her build. “Oh, but that chap’s a friend of _mine_!” cried Winchmore. “I ran across him--the--not so long ago, hugging the Scotch coast--out of his course, he said, owing to foul weather and a new type of engine--a Diesel. That’s him, ain’t it--the complete neutral?” He mentioned an outstanding peculiarity of the ship’s rig. “Yes,” said Portson. “Did you board him, Winchmore?” “No. There’d been a bit of a blow the day before and old _Ethel’s_ only dinghy had dropped off the hooks. But he signalled me all his symptoms. He was as communicative as--as a lady in the Promenade. (Hold on, Nephew of my Uncle! I’m going to have some more of that Béarnaise fillet.) His smell attracted me. I chaperoned him for a couple of days.”