The steward appeared with the cocktails, and refreshment further loosened the tongue of the aggrieved young man. “You and I ought to be pals,” he offered graciously. “I mean to say, we’re in the same position. What I mean is, we’re going along because Mrs. Breese wants us to, damn it! She likes our company and that’s all there is to it. But you’ll find out before you’re on here very long that that young boy is going to make all kinds of remarks. Lounge lizard! He had the nerve to call me that one time. And he’ll be calling you that, too.” I pointed out in embarrassed self-defense that I had come along in a professional capacity. But Mr. Thomas merely smiled. “Of course, of course,” he gestured in dismissal of the excuse. “But Mrs. Breese took you along because she liked you. She really doesn’t want a thing, I assure you. Finest woman I ever met. She doesn’t expect anything. Why, one night in Paris, I remember I was dog-tired and she wanted to dance and I said ‘I’m dog-tired,’ and what do you think she did? She said ‘In that case, we’ll stay home.’ Hang it all, there’s a woman for you.” I cite Mr. Thomas at vacuous length to give you some idea of his mentality and his attitude. There was no question in my mind that the problem of marriage between Mrs. Breese and himself had not come up. Their relationship was still undetermined. After the cocktails had been consumed, Gordon Rice joined us. He seemed more florid than ever in checked grey and plus fours. He had evidently been up on deck and his face was wind-blown. He greeted the sight of glasses with an expansive chuckle and I pressed the bell for reinforcements. “Great weather!” Mr. Rice rubbed his cold hands. “I tell you, there’s nothing like an ocean trip to set you right. I’ve been feeling foggy for the last three months, and one hour on deck has sure made a difference.” He sat down heavily. He turned to me. “Well, what are you writing up? Got any big news?” I laughed and said I didn’t expect any more big news. Incidentally, I had determined (to salve my conscience) that part of my job would be to suppress such news as Mrs. Breese thought fit for public consumption. If I could do nothing else, I could at least prevent her from making a fool of herself. “You’ll like Havana in the spring,” Mr. Rice assured me. “It’s past the season and all that, but it’s delightful. I was there all through the summer once. ’Ninety-eight. Our little fracas with Spain. Funny, nobody remembers that war. I guess they’ll be forgetting the last one before you know it.” “And they should,” said the actor. “Hang it all, who wants to remember the war?” Mr. Rice looked at the young man with some distaste. I had noted before that he did not quite approve of Mrs. Breese’s gigolo. I could sense now a healthy active man’s dislike of an idler. Perhaps the actor felt the antagonism, too, for he protested: “I was in the war myself.” Rice raised his eyebrows half skeptically.