"More N’s. We can’t both be N—must be a misprint...." He seized the book. "Have I got to learn all that by heart? Why don’t they have a Short Course at Greenwich, or Whaley, or somewhere, about these things. "I, ’N,’ take thee, ’N’"—he began reading the words feverishly. "No—that’s all right. You repeat it after the parson. And you say, ’I, John Willie,’ or whatever your various names might be, ’take thee, Millicent’—d’you see? Here, let me fix that epaulette." "Give me a cigarette, for Heaven’s sake." He hurriedly scanned the pages. "Ass I was to leave it so late.... What awful things they talk about.... Why didn’t I insist on a Registry Office? Or can’t you get married over a pair of tongs somewhere—what religion’s that?" "Don’t know—Gretna Green, or something. It’s too late now. Do stand still.... Right! Where’s your sword.... Gloves?" He stepped back and surveyed his handiwork, smiling his whimsical, half-grave smile. For a few seconds the two men stood looking at each other, and the thoughts that passed through their minds were long, long thoughts. "You’ll do," said the Torpedo Lieutenant at length, but there was an absent look in his eyes, as though his thoughts had gone a long way beyond the spare, upright figure in blue and gold. In truth they had: back fifteen years or more to a moonlit night in the club garden at Malta. Two midshipmen had finished dinner (roast chicken, rum-omelette, "Scotch-woodcock," and all the rest of it), and were experimenting desperately with two cigars. It was Ladies’ Night, and down on the terrace a few officers’ wives were dining with their husbands; the Flagship’s band was playing softly. "A fellow must make up his mind, Bill," one of the midshipmen had said. "It’s either one thing or the other—either the Service or Women. You can’t serve both; and it seems to me that the Service ought to come first." And there and then they had vowed eternal celibacy for the benefit of the Navy, upon which, under the good providence of God, the Honour, Safety, and Welfare of the Nation do most chiefly depend. Fifteen years ago...! "You’ll do," repeated the Torpedo Lieutenant in a matter-of-fact tone, and rang the bell. Private Phillips of the Royal Marine Light Infantry entered with a gold-necked bottle and two tumblers. The cork popped and the two officers raised their glasses— "Happy days!" said Torps. "Salue!" replied the other, and for a moment his eyes rested on his Best Man with something half-wistful in their regard. "D’you remember Aldershot...? The Middles: you seconded me, and we split a bottle afterwards...?" Torps nodded, smiling. "But this is ’Just before the battle, mother!’" They moved towards the door, and for a moment he rested his hand on the heavy epaulette beside his. "An’ if you make as good a show of this as you did that afternoon, you won’t come to no ’arm, old son." *III.*