"Is Mark expecting a reply of some sort?" asked Catriona.
"Well, I don't know. If you see fit to send him one."
Catriona was beginning to feel very tired again, and nauseous. The Arcadia kept rolling and plunging; not violently, but with unsettling persistence.
"I don't know," said Catriona. "Perhaps he doesn't deserve a reply. On the other hand, perhaps he does."
"I think he'll be pleased just to know that you're not angry with him," suggested Philip.
"Angry? No, I'm not angry. Peeved, perhaps. I don't know. Not even that. I suppose he meant well. Why don't you just tell him that every thing's jake, and leave it at that."
"Everything's jake?"
"That's the message."
Philip Carter-Helm stood where he was. Catriona said, "That's all, goodbye," but Philip blushed and swallowed and looked embarrassed.
"I was supposed to give you a kiss."
"A kiss?"
"From Mark, that is."
"What kind of lover sends kisses by proxy?"
"A shy one, I suppose."
"There's nothing shy about Mark Beeney," said Catriona.
"Not normally. But, from what I gather, he's not normally repentant, either."
Repentant. Hmm. Catriona rather liked the sound of that. She could almost picture Mark in a monk's habit, lashing his own back and groaning with remorseful agony.
"All right," she said. "If you think he's truly repentant."
Philip cleared his throat behind his fist, and then stepped forward, and kissed Catriona quickly on the cheek. It was a brief, brotherly kiss.
Catriona looked up at him. There was something about his eyes which she found curiously disturbing, as if there were somebody she knew looking out from behind an unfamiliar mask.
"You don't—?" she began, but the question wouldn't form itself in her mind.
"Thank you for putting up with me," said Philip. "Perhaps you'll give me the pleasure of a dance sometime during the voyage. Then I can make up for being so boorish."
"Don't mench," said Catriona, being deliberately flapperish.
After Philip Carter-Helm had left, Edgar came into the sitting room and dosed the door. He looked a little grey, but his bow tie was still immaculate, and his patent shoes gleamed like two wet sharks.
"Who was that?" he wanted to know.
"A friend of Mark Beeney's. Nobody special. Yawns incarnate, if you must know."
Edgar took out a cigarette, and offered one to Catriona. She shook her head, but then she changed her mind and took one. Edgar lit it for her with a steady, white-cuffed hand.
"You know that I don't particularly approve of the way in which you've been encouraging Mark Beeney. I thought I'd made it abundantly clear before the voyage started that he has nothing to offer us; only difficulties. He's a personable young man, of course. But he's only interested in American TransAtlantic, and his own amusement. Not in you; nor in the future of Keys Shipping."
"Well, well. You don't approve," said Catriona.
"I don't really think you know what you're letting yourself in for. Nor the company."
"Don't I?"
Edgar said to Trimmer, "Pour me a pink gin, will you?" Then, to Catriona, "Just because I confided in you when you first came back from London, just because I made it clear that Keys was in financial difficulty, that doesn't actually mean that I expect you to involve yourself actively in the running of the company. I'm the managing director, and that happens to be my job."
"You're worried that I might sell the Arcadia behind your back, just because I happen to like Mark Beeney?"
"Well, of course not; and in any case, you couldn't. You have only a quarter of the common stock, and that is not enough to be a deciding factor in itself. Besides—"
Catriona raised an eyebrow. She wished very much at that moment that Edgar would go away and stop nagging her. Why did everybody want to talk business all the darn time? She decided to give him as long as it took them both to smoke their cigarettes; and then to ask him to go. She liked Mark; she liked dancing; and quite frankly all this shipping talk sent her scatty.
"Besides what?" she asked.
"You're going to be a sensible girl, that's all," said Edgar. He tried a smile. It didn't quite fit, so he tried another. "You've seen what grave responsibilities we have. You know what IMM are offering us. I personally feel mortified that we have to think of selling to anyone, but I know where my duties lie, and I believe that you do, too. I believe in—what shall we call it?—the natural sagacity of the younger generation'.
"Oh, bunk," said Catriona. "You don't think that I'm going to want to sell the Arcadia to Mark Beeney just because we've been dancing all evening?"
"You're a modern girl," said Edgar, tightly, and a little cryptically.
Catriona smoked for a while, long exaggerated puffs; then abruptly crushed her cigarette out. This was all a pose. She was tired, and hungover, and all she wanted to do was crawl into her bed, close her eyes, and sleep until it was evening again.
"You don't really think we'll have to sell Keys, do you?" she asked. "Have you talked to Mr Whatsit of the Irish Bank? Surely he's impressed."
"He's not unimpressed," Edgar agreed, with caution. "On the other hand, he's like all our investors. All of our creditors, rather. He'd prefer to wait and see."
"Do you think we're going to take the Blue Riband?"
"God willing. Sir Peregrine tells me the engines are running like honey. And all due to that new injection valve your father developed. A very great man, your father, in all respects."
Catriona said, "Do you really think that there's any chance of keeping Keys in the family?"
"To be honest, Miss Keys, I don't know. I fear that too many creditors will press us too soon. Success has its drawbacks as well as its advantages, don't y'know. If they begin to think that we're back in the money, then we're going to be inundated with bills from hotels and meat wholesalers and vintners and fuel suppliers; and we won't be able to meet even half of them."
"How much has George Welterman offered us?"
"For the whole fleet? Eighteen million pounds."
"That doesn't seem like very much. The Arcadia alone is worth four."
"I doubt if we'll get a better offer, or any other offer at all. The Keys fleet is prestigious, certainly, but most of its vessels are already out-of-date."
"Oh, I don't know," said Catriona hotly. "The whole thing makes my head go round."
Edgar looked at her carefully. She couldn't quite understand his look. It was clear and correct on the surface, and yet because of its meticulousness, it was also mysterious. Perhaps she hadn't known enough Anglo-Indians to be able to penetrate the mental regime of the Raj; in which life had been a never-ending seating arrangement.
"I'll let you get your feet up," said Edgar. (That was Raj-talk, too: officers and their lady wives put their feet up; enlisted men got their heads down.) "And, really, if I were you, I wouldn't concern yourself too much with friend Beeney."
"I won't stop being nice to him, if that's what you mean."
"I'm not asking you to. I'm simply saying that it would be of some assistance if you could be equally nice to George Welterman. Well, maybe not equally. But nearly equally. He's a very sensitive individual."
"So he told us. He had a very sad love affair with Myrtle Greensleeves."
"Oh, yes, that," said Edgar, with unexpected impatience. "But, in any case, I'd appreciate it if you would do your best to make him feel welcome, even if you can't make him feel loved."
"Miss Keys," said Alice. "Time for your night creams now."
"All right, Alice," Catriona told her. "And thank you, Mr Deacon. I'm sure that I'm much the wiser. And I won't interfere in business. Not too much, anyway."