But Milly, quite unconscious of having transgressed, went up and nestled beside him. He put his arm round her and patted her shoulder. "It's a very nice ship," she conceded. Above the mantelpiece hung an oval portrait of a girl. Joan liked her pleasant, honest eyes, blue like the admiral's, only larger; her face looked wide open like a hedge rose. Joan had to ask. She thought, "It's cheek, I suppose, but I do want to know." Aloud she said: "Please, who is that?" The admiral followed the direction of her gaze. "Olivia," he answered, in a voice that took it for granted that he had no need to say more. "Olivia?" "My wife." "Oh!" breathed Joan, feeling horribly embarrassed. She wished that she had not asked. Poor admiral, people said that he had loved her a great deal! "Where is she?" inquired Milly. Joan thought: "Of all the idiotic questions! Has she forgotten that he's a widower?" She was on tenterhooks. The admiral gave a little sigh. "She died a long time ago," he said, and stared fixedly at the portrait. Joan pulled Milly round. "Oh, look, what a pet of a canary!" she said foolishly. She and Milly went over to the cage; the bird hopped twice and put his head on one side. He examined them out of one black bead. The admiral came up behind them. "That's Julius Cæsar," he volunteered. Joan turned with relief; he was smiling. He opened the door of the cage and thrust in a finger, whistling softly; the canary bobbed, then it jumped on to the back of his hand, ignoring the finger. Very slowly and gently he with drew his hand and lifted the bird up to his face. It put its beak between his lips and kissed him, then its mood changed and it nipped his thumb. He laughed, and replaced it in the cage. "Shall we go over the ship?" he inquired. The children agreed eagerly. He stalked along in front of them, hands in jacket pockets. He took them into the neat dining-room, opening and shutting the port-holes to show how they worked, then into the smoking-room, large, long, and book-lined with the volumes of his naval library. Then up the rubber-covered stairs and along the narrow white passage with small doors in a row on either side. A man in more white drill was polishing the brass handles, there was the clean acrid smell of brass polish; Joan wondered if they polished brass all day at Glory Point, this was such a queer time to be doing it, at four in the afternoon. The admiral threw open one of the doors while the children peered over his shoulder. "This is my sleeping cabin," he said contentedly.