Entertaining the top end of the officers' table, out of earshot of the impressionable young women lower down, Mr. Cutler the Purser was telling a story. He was a great story-teller; he had stories for every category and every sub-division of passenger; he had stories for his superiors, he had stories for stewards. He could always suit his company, whether it were official or polite or relaxed or bawdy. But he had a taste for what might be called shaggy-girl anecdotes, and he was indulging this now.
"There was this new draft of twenty Wrens," he said, straight-faced. "They were having a full-scale medical examination on a very cold day in naval barracks. They were kept on parade for an hour, stark naked, temperature of zero, very draughty. Then the door opened, and what do you think came out?"
His audience waited.
"Forty blue-tits," said Mr. Cutler.
He got his laugh, from the Chief Engineer and the others, even from the Captain, who, a puritan soul, had a vague feeling that such stories were bad for discipline. Tiptree-Jones laughed heartily as soon as he saw the Captain doing the same. Relaxing, they looked round them, enjoying Sacha's, and the cool dark beer, and the beat and sway of the music. They couldn't really afford such cushioned luxury, as the passengers could, but once in a while it seemed a permissible waste of money.
Mr. Cutler, glancing down the length of the table, said:
"Young Tim looks a bit under the weather."
Captain Harmer looked in the same direction. "So he does." He raised his voice: "Fourth!"
"Sir?" said Tim Mansell, swinging round.
"Cheer up," commanded the Captain. "Aren't you enjoying
yourself?"
"Yes, sir," answered Tim. "I'm enjoying myself very much."
"You don't look like it."
Blantyre, the Third Officer, who acted as a link between the top brass and the juniors, said: "It must be love, sir. Hopeless, unrequited love."
"Oh, cut it out," said Tim under his breath.
"Who is it, Fourth?" asked Tiptree-Jones. They all knew, but they were in the mood to play along with the joke. "Maybe we could help. Is it anyone we know?"
"ft isn't anyone," said Tim sulkily.
Kathy and Mr. Tillotson, circling the dance-floor, passed close by their table.
"Why don't you dance with her?" asked Blantyre, when she was out of earshot. "Give her a real treat."
"1 don't know what you mean."
"Perhaps she likes older men," Beresford chipped in. "I read in a magazine once—"
"You shut up!" said Tim savagely.
"/ like older men," announced Faith Bartlett. "And I like younger men. In fact, I like men, period."
"How can you say things like that?" demanded Good Old Joan, embarrassed. "You might as well say—well, I mean—" she broke off, floundering in shocked speculation.
Fleming squeezed the hair-dressing girl fondly, and inquired:
"Do you like men, darling?"
"I like men," said the hair-dressing girl, preoccupied as usual, "like I like enlarged pores."
"That's my girl," said Fleming.
The music ceased, with a flurry of bongo drums; Kathy put her hand lightly on Tillotson's arm as they left the dance-floor. She was looking lovely, thought Tim, watching her with hot and miserable eyes. The loveliest girl in the whole world. Hanging on to that old man's arm as if they were going to bed together. And the way she walked. . . . He turned away, in absolute unhappiness, and made a desperate effort to exorcize the moment. Glass in hand, he leant towards Faith Bartlett, until he was staring directly into her eyes.
"Now, nurse," he said, "tell me about your problem."
Kathy danced with Carl Wenstrom. They danced well together, from long practice; his tall body moved gracefully, and she followed him with instinctive pleasure. They stayed near the centre of the floor, withdrawn from the other couples and from the tables close to the edge. Carl spoke softly, with no change of expression, and she answered him in the same fashion.
"Bring me up to date," he said.
"It looks like Beckwith," she answered indifferently. "Tillotson's playing it very cagey. In fact, he might never get to the point. But Beckwith will."
"How do you know that?"
She shrugged. "Oh—you know. He's pressing ahead whenever he gets the chance. Busy fingers. He's a cold-blooded fish really, and scared to death as well, but I'm getting the message. And so is he."
"I am almost jealous," said Carl.
She dared not bring her body closer to his, but she squeezed his arm slightly. "You know you needn't be. You're worth ten of these dopes. But I've got to put out some sort of a welcome-mat, haven't I?"
"Undoubtedly." He looked down at her for a moment, enjoying the warm, creamy curve of her bosom above the pale green dress. "You're looking very lovely tonight, my darling. Do I see you later?"
"I hope so." They circled once before she spoke again. "It depends how long this thing takes to develop, and what happens."
"You think it will be tonight?"
"Maybe. I haven't worked things out. It might help if you kept old Lady Snootwith busy when we get back on board. Trouble is, she has him running errands the whole time."
"So what's the answer?"
The music was coming to a close. "I haven't worked things out," she said again. Her forehead was creased with a tiny frown. "Has Beckwith ever been in your cabin? Do you think he would remember the number?"
Carl shook his head. "No. He's had a drink in the sitting-room once or twice. But he wouldn't know which of the other rooms are yours and mine. Why?"
"Just an idea. I thought it might increase the pressure if I took him into your cabin, and then told him you were likely to come back any time."
"It's a possibility."
She nodded, as the music stopped and the dancers began to move back to their tables. "Yes. I'll probably try that. You'd better stay out of the way, or use my cabin, till I give you the word."
"O.K." As they walked back, he said: "I see yourother admirer isn't looking quite so sad now."
She glanced briefly at Tim Mansell. "Oh, him. . . . That nurse really is a menace, isn't she?"
"She makes me glad I am not ill," answered Carl. Coming towards their table, he added: "Ah, we have a visitor."
The Captain had joined them for a moment, greeting their table heartily and accepting a whisky and soda at Tillotson's invitation. His good humour was infectious; their group, which had not been notable for high spirits, soon grew cheerful and lively. But presently it was time to leave; the Alcestis would be sailing at first light, and they were due back on board not later than two o'clock. Tillotson, calling for their bill, frowned in mock dismay as he noted the total.
"Well, it's cheaper than playing poker," he remarked, "and that's about all you can say for it."
Captain Harmer nodded. "Ah yes, I heard you had a regular game going. Who's the big winner?"
Carl and Tillotson both answered: "He is," at the same moment, and then burst out laughing.
"You must be 'way ahead," said Tillotson.
"Perhaps a little," admitted Carl. "I haven't been keeping strict accounts. But I can feel you breathing down my neck most of the time."
"You play a heavy game?" asked Harmer.
"A moderate game," answered Carl. He smiled at the Captain; there was between them a mutual respect and liking which rose from small things, things heard and seen and reported at odd moments during the past six weeks. They faced each other as strong and competent men in their own chosen worlds. "We don't want to give the ship a bad name, do we?"
They were all preparing to move; Sir Hubert was collecting things for his wife—her stole, her cigarettes, her lighter which had fallen to the floor. But then, out of the corner of his eye, Carl noticed that Beckwith was hanging back, so that presently he was walking to the door beside Kathy. He could be heard to say, in well-bred tones whose nonchalance failed to conceal a hint of invitation: