“And, apart from any order of mine considered as an order, I want your promise. You know as well as I do that the order is one I can’t enforce from day to day. The Service etiquette keeps the Captain well aft. I can’t see what goes on.” “I’m as strongly against the system as you are, sir.” “That settles the matter, then, for one ship among hundreds. Good-night.” “Good-night, sir.” Hartington walked towards the door. Because a question in his mind remained unanswered he hesitated visibly. “What is it?” the Captain asked. “Another ‘cause’ to baffle us?” “There was a question, sir.” “Yes?” “You spoke--twice--of the forces behind the Service. I was wondering, sir----” The Captain shook his head. “No, Hartington; we haven’t time to try to unravel that mesh. Besides, it savours of politics, which are not for naval officers. I have said enough already this evening--perhaps too much unless you are discreet. Good-night, again.” “Good-night, sir.” CHAPTER XIII LOOKING BEYOND I Those streets at Singapore where the harlots of East and West sit at their doors and in their verandahs, stretching out their whitened arms towards the passers-by, were investigated and discussed by the Gunroom. They are investigated and discussed by most Europeans who pass through Singapore, and they remain and will remain. Cunwell thought them funny; Dyce was curious, and desired information; Sentley, who had entered them inadvertently, left them in haste, fearful and embarrassed. John and Hugh, who drove through them together in rickshaws, were glad when they were clear of them. “My God!” John said, “isn’t it amazing how beastliness spreads?” “The women?” Hugh asked. “No; at the moment I was thinking of Krame. But the women, too, if you like.” “Oh, be damned to Krame! We are free of him.” “Yes, we are, but others are not.” “I’d forgotten them.” “One does forget.” Hugh looked at him. “Cheer up, John,” he said, “the sight of the women has made you miserable. It’s no good being miserable about them. There’s nothing to be done.” “I’m not miserable about them only. I’m angry because they are helpless, and we are helpless. I’m angry for all helpless things. They would probably tell you that they would never have come to this if they had had plenty of money. Sweated labour would tell you that what it wants is higher wages. And--though my reason tells me it’s all a lie--I myself think that if only I had more money I could do the work I want to do and be happy. We all look to money for help--that’s why we are helpless.” “Then it’s our own fault.”