“Not exactly in the war. Spent almost a year drilling in camp. And a fine time I had of it! One of those pests of a second-lieutenant, you know. He and I never got along.” Thomas smirked. “Not after I took his girl away from him. Then he tried to make life really miserable. Why, he wouldn’t even let me wear the uniform my tailor made. Insisted I put on those terrible togs the quartermaster issued.” I tried to steer Mr. Thomas away from his woes, but with scant success. “I could have killed that wretch!” he muttered with the first sign of conviction I had heard in his voice since his torture on the witness stand. “I would have, too, if it weren’t for the armistice.” “You’d never have the go to kill anyone,” Rice laughed in his bluff way. “Too much work.” His antagonism now was quite frank. But Thomas only smiled feebly, and said: “I don’t know about that. I think a man can stand just so much and no more, and then he’s just not responsible for himself, damn it.” Rice looked at him as he would at a particularly unpleasant insect. He took no pains to hide his feelings. “Having been an officer myself,” he said, “my sympathy is all for the lieutenant. Probably thought he could make a soldier of you if he tried hard enough.” The conversation was getting embarrassing for me. Suddenly I heard Thomas exclaim as if he had been startled. I looked up. In the doorway stood young Henry Breese. I caught only a fleeting glimpse of the boy’s face, but there was vindictive hatred in the flash of his eyes. Then he darted out of my sight. “Now what did he want to do that for?” Thomas whined. Rice continued to look at him. I didn’t know what to say. Fortunately at this moment Mrs. Breese sailed into the room, and in relief even Thomas rose to his feet with some alacrity. “Someone give me a cocktail!” she demanded gaily, and Rice was the first to reach the shaker, and with quiet ceremony fill and give her a glass of what seemed to me a perfect Martini. “Everybody having a good time? I do want everybody to have a good time.” She never waited for an answer. “I’ve ordered luncheon for one. This sea-air should give you all an appetite. I know I feel perfectly marvellous.” I doubt if she had even been on deck. Thomas said he still had some unpacking to do and excused himself. She smiled sweetly at him, and as he left the room her faded blue eyes seemed to follow him appraisingly. “I think he’s perfectly sweet,” she murmured, and I could hear Rice grunt in disapproval. Mrs. Breese frowned. “Gordon, I don’t know what you see in Guy that you don’t like, but for my sake you might try to understand him. You know you don’t understand him or you’d like him.” “Nothing to understand,” muttered Rice. There was a moment’s silence. Rice seemed to feel uncomfortable. He said finally that he, too, had some unpacking to superintend, clearly a lame excuse, and left us. Mrs. Breese sighed.