“When you met the R.A. you thought him charming, didn’t you? And so he was. You should see him in the ship. And I hope you think me even more charming than the R.A.? You should see me in the ship. I wonder if the men think I am always like this. I’m sure the snotties do. I’ve just cursed some new ones till they fled, and I suppose they think--and I don’t wonder--that I’m an inhuman beast. What’s more, I’m afraid they won’t ever have much cause to think otherwise. I shall curse them and drive them whenever I see them--just as the Admiral, a bit more politely, drives me. (It doesn’t hurt me, because I can see _through_ it all.) It must be done. It really is necessary. Probably the R.A. excuses himself to _his_ wife on the grounds that the Vice-Admiral drives him, and so on up to My Lords Commissioners at Whitehall, who would put the responsibility on the Germans, and they return it. It is a circle! “I’m sorry. I oughtn’t to fill all my letter to you with grousing. The Service is a fine service, and Peter shall go into it if you’ll trust him to Commanders even fiercer than myself. But we shall have to talk it over about Peter. I’m not quite sure that the Navy is the best place. Your father was an artist, and if any of that has come through to Peter--well, we eat artists. I know you want it--but then you know the Navy ashore, and you have a husband who is going to be an admiral, haven’t you? Do you know anything of the Jesuits of old time and their methods? I feel rather like them sometimes. But then, of course, the Service is a really fine ‘end’--that makes all the difference. “When I come home....” The midshipman of the watch tapped at the door. “Eight bells, sir.” “Sound off!” The bugle sounded. The pen worked quicker now. The last four words were crossed out. “... I’ll write again. I want to get this letter ashore. I’m sending in an extra boat after Quarters. Quarters is sounding off now. I must go.” He thrust on his cap and walked out on to the quarter-deck. Here the Marines and the Quarter-deck Division were falling in. “Where’s the midshipman of the Quarter-deck Division?... Mr. Ollenor, in future you will come up from the Gunroom in time to see that your Division falls in smartly to the bugle. Look at them! They’re a damned disgrace!--all talking when I came.... Don’t answer me. Go to them.” The Commander was shouting. He swung round on his heel to cover a queer smile. The sergeant-major, who missed nothing, wondered what joke there was; but he knew nothing of the Commander’s letter. At that moment the Rear-Admiral emerged from his quarters. With his hands clasped behind him he walked to the after-rails and looked over the stern. “Commander!” “Sir!” The Rear-Admiral pointed upwards to where the white ensign had become entangled with its staff. “Your ensign’s foul. It looks bad for the rest of the squadron.” Then he strolled away. The Commander’s lips tightened. “Midshipman of the Watch!”