‘Troops?’ ‘Go, man,’ urged the major in an undervoice. Except for one memorable school excursion to Paris, Ann Veronica had never yet been outside England. Our ideal had fallen. Wood rushed instantly to meet them. Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips. The young man had knocked over the siphon. He was clearing up these difficulties by tracing a partially obliterated suture the Scotchman had overlooked when the door from the passage opened, and Manning came into his universe. In one of the cabins a man sat on the edge of his narrow bunk. The inside was empty except for an infant, which from a distance looked utterly normal. Pitt, the governor, a tall pompous personage, who, in his turn, ushered in four other individuals. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. .
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