"You're, er, happy with that arrangement?" asked Edgar, a little puzzled by Rudyard's silence. His voice was very clipped, very office-wallah.
"I sort of took it for granted that I was next in seniority," Rudyard told him, trying hard not to sound desperate. 'After Sir Peregrine, I mean."
"Yes?" said Edgar, obviously expecting him to say more.
"Well, I assumed that if anything were to happen to Sir Peregrine... I mean, I didn't think that anything like this would happen... but if he retired... or decided he wanted a shorebound billet rather than an oceangoing job... well, I assumed that I would take over the Arcadia."
"You are taking over," said Edgar.
"But only temporarily," Rudyard told him.
"Yes," said Edgar.
"But why? I thought I was the natural successor. I've had enough years at sea, damn it. I'm experienced enough."
Edgar put his arm further around Rudyard's shoulders and spoke to him in a clipped, fatherly tone. "We know that, Mr Philips. We're aware of your record, and how long you've been serving the company, don't y'know. But the thing is, when it comes to making a choice a commodore, you have to think of the way the shipping company is going to appear in the eyes of the travelling public. Do you a what I'm saying? We need somebody for commodore who is not only experienced, but looks experienced. A weathered seadog, if you like. A man with presence, and dignity, and age."
"You don't think I have dignity?"
"Mr. Philips, that's not what I'm saying at all. I'm simply saying that we now have to look for a commodore who fits the public's idea of what a commodore should be."
"You're passing me over because I haven't got a grey beard?"
"Of course not. And, in any case, you're not being passed over. You're still captain of our second most luxurious steamship. You can't sneeze at the Aurora."
"The Aurora is not the Arcadia, Mr Deacon, and you damn well know it. The Aurora is old, underpowered, and she has about as much elegance as the Liver Building."
"I've always thought of the Liver Building as rather dramatic," said Edgar.
"It may well be," Rudyard retorted, "but you wouldn't want to put to sea in it, would you?"
"Mr. Philips, I think you're exaggerating," said Edgar. "The position is that if Keys remains independent, the board will shortly choose a new commodore, and that in the meantime you are to be captain of the Arcadia. That is all."
"I don't think you quite understand," said Rudyard. He was so hot now with anger and fear and disappointment that he was sweating into his tight white collar like an attendant in a Turkish bath. "I've been counting on this promotion."
"Counting?' asked Edgar, cocking his head to one side. "I'm sorry?"
"I've been counting on it," Rudyard repeated, but he couldn't bring himself to say how much. His humiliation was agonising enough without having to admit to Edgar that only an hour ago he had sent a wireless message back to Toy, telling her that under no circumstances could he consider a career on land, and that he had found new happiness with another woman. Whether this woman was Louise Narron, or whether she was the Arcadia, even Rudyard himself had not quite been sure. But one thing was now certain: he wasn't going to get the Arcadia, even if his happiness depended on it.
"You shouldn't be too disappointed," Edgar was saying, although Rudyard was scarcely listening to him now. "If Keys is bought up by IMM, you'll no doubt get the chance to command IMM ships, as well. Perhaps the Mauretania."
Rudyard said abruptly, "I'd better get back to the passengers."
"Listen," said Edgar, "you didn't really believe that—well, you didn't think that you were automatically going to take over as commodore, did you? Because nobody ever said anything about that in writing. You weren't given that specific promise."
"No," said Rudyard. "Nobody gave me that specific promise."
Edgar looked relieved. "You'd better get back to your passengers then."
Rudyard returned to the dining lounge with two spots of high colour on his cheeks. The steward drew out his chair for him, and he sat down. He began to eat his bacon and sausage links with quick, mechanical gestures, nodding and smiling now and then at the passengers who sat opposite him. One of these was Baroness Zawisza, who this morning was in excellent spirits. Sabran had lost his last cent last night to Maurice Peace, and in an attempt to win just a little of his money back, he had given Maurice a note for five hundred pounds. He had lost all of that, too; and so he had been presented with no alternative but to return to the baroness and ask her to meet his debt. The baroness had gladly written him a cheque; but had demanded in return a whole night of slavish service, including one of her favourite delights, which was to be made love to while she was asleep. Or mostly asleep, anyway.
Baroness Zawisza said to Rudyard, "You're looking thoughtful, Captain. You were going to tell us about the time that you lost your propellers off the island of Crete."
Rudyard said, "I've just learned that I am not going to take over the Arcadia permanently."
It was unforgivable to share a company confidence with a passenger. But Rudyard was so mortified by what Edgar had said that he had to tell someone, and that someone couldn't be any other member of the ship's complement, and it especially couldn't be Louise Narron. He could see Louise's flaming red hair between Jack Dempsey and George Welterman, and he felt like throwing back his chair, stalking across the dining lounge, and strangling her.
Baroness Zawisza said, "You must be very disappointed."
"I'm—" began Rudyard loudly, but then, more softly, "I'm quite disappointed, yes. She's a marvellous vessel, you see. Quite unlike anything else on the Atlantic today, and that includes the Mauretania."
Sabran, sitting next to the baroness, lit up a cigarette, took two or three sulky puffs at it, and then crushed it out into his kippers. Baroness Zawisza patted the poor boy's wrist, and said to Rudyard, "We all have our problems, you know. Ones I was riding on the banks of the Wrka, and I met an old peasant who had fallen down under the weight of a load of firewood. I wet his lips with Chateau Lynch-Bages as he lay there on the ground, and fed him a small piece of smoked quail. Then I rode on my way."
"He must have been very consoled," said Rudyard.
Sabran said, "Wee-meen! They are completely without mercy!"
Maurice Peace was thoroughly enjoying his breakfast. He sat with his napkin tucked into his collar, munching his way through bacon and whitebait, and alternately sipping coffee and soda. He had made a healthy profit from last night's cards, and the only possible cloud on his horizon was the fact that there were no clouds on the horizon. The day was clear and calm, and the Arcadia was making good time. He was wondering whether the best start to his morning might be to set fire to a few oily rags and push them down a ventilator shaft, so that the ship would have to slow down for a fire drill.
At the very far end of the lounge, however, Joe Kretchmer and Duncan Wilkes were in serious difficulties. They sat facing each other, divided only by their dogged rivalry and by seventeen different platefuls of breakfast, including plovers' eggs and pickled headcheese. Duncan Wilkes had nearly given up at the sight of more brains. He had only just managed to gag down two of them last night. Now, here they were again, fried crisp on the outside, and swimming in black butter, with capers.
Henrietta Chibnall, Mr. Kretchmer's second, was growing bored and rather nauseated by the whole affair. Mr. Kretchmer had not yet been spectacularly sick, as she had hoped, and she was growing increasingly sensitive to his grunts and puffs of abdominal exertion, not to mention the grease which kept running down his chin, and which it was her duty to mop up.