“I guess that’s the Saturn,” he said to his companion as they walked near us.  “She was due to sail this morning.  Got a lot of French reservists on board.  Poor devils!  Anybody getting into that hell over there has about one chance in a million to get out again.”

Forgetful of my mother-in-law’s presence, indeed, of everything else in the world, I turned and gazed at the steamer making its way out to sea.  I knew that somewhere on its decks stood Jack, my brother-cousin, the best friend my mother and I had ever known.  When he had come back from a year’s absence to ask me to be his wife he had found that I had married Dicky.  Then he had announced his intention of joining the French engineering corps.

What had that man said just now?  Not one chance in a million!  I felt as if it were my hand that was pushing him across the ocean to almost certain death.

When I could no longer see the Saturn as she churned her way out to sea, I turned around quickly with a sense of guilt at having ignored my mother-in-law’s presence, and then a voice sounded in my ear.

“You don’t seem delighted to see me.  I am surprised at you.”

Harry Underwood towered above me, his handsome face marred by the little, leering smile he generally wears, his bold, laughing eyes staring down into my horrified ones.

I do not believe that ever a woman of a more superstitious time dreaded the evil eye as I do the glance of Harry Underwood.

How to answer him or what to do I did not know.  He evidently had been drinking enough to make himself irresponsible.

He did not give me time to ponder long, however, “Who is your lady friend,” he burlesqued.  “Introduce me.”

A man less audacious than Harry Underwood would have been daunted by the picture my mother-in-law presented as he turned toward her.  Her figure was drawn up to its extreme height, and she was surveying him through her lorgnette with an expression that held disgust mingled with the curiosity an explorer might feel at meeting some strange specimen of animal in his travels.

“Mrs. Graham, this is Mr. Underwood,” I managed to stammer.  “Mr. Underwood, Mrs. Graham, Dicky’s mother.”

My mother-in-law may overawe ordinary people, but Harry Underwood minded her disdain no more than he would have the contempt of a stately Plymouth Rock hen.  She had lowered the lorgnette as I spoke, and he grabbed the hand which still held it, shaking it as warmly as if it belonged to some long-lost friend.

“Well!  Well!” he said effusively.  “But this is great.  Dear old Dicky’s mother!” He stopped and fixed a speculating stare upon her.  “You mean his sister,” he said reprovingly to me.  “Don’t tell me you mean his mother.  No, no, I can’t believe that.”

He shook his head solemnly.  Evidently he was much impressed with himself.  If I had not been so miserable I could have smiled at the idea of Harry Underwood trying on the elder Mrs. Graham the silly specious flatteries he addressed to most women.  My mother-in-law did not deign to answer him.  Her manner was superb in its haughty reserve, although I could not say much for her courtesy.  As he released her hand she let it drop quietly to her side and stood still, gazing at him with a quiet, disdainful look that would have made almost any other man wince.