He helped himself to another section of the chocolate cake.

“Haven’t you finished yet, Tom?” inquired Phyllis.  “I’m sure Mr. Garnet’s getting tired of sitting talking here,” she said.

I shot out a polite negative.  Mr. Chase explained with his mouth full that he had by no means finished.  Chocolate cake, it appeared, was the dream of his life.  When at sea he was accustomed to lie awake o’ nights thinking of it.

“You don’t seem to realise,” he said, “that I have just come from a cruise on a torpedo-boat.  There was such a sea on as a rule that cooking operations were entirely suspended, and we lived on ham and sardines—­without bread.”

“How horrible!”

“On the other hand,” added Mr. Chase philosophically, “it didn’t matter much, because we were all ill most of the time.”

“Don’t be nasty, Tom.”

“I was merely defending myself.  I hope Mr. Hawk will be able to do as well when his turn comes.  My aim, my dear Phyllis, is to show you in a series of impressionist pictures the sort of thing I have to go through when I’m not here.  Then perhaps you won’t rend me so savagely over a matter of five minutes’ lateness for breakfast.”

“Five minutes!  It was three-quarters of an hour, and everything was simply frozen.”

“Quite right too in weather like this.  You’re a slave to convention, Phyllis.  You think breakfast ought to be hot, so you always have it hot.  On occasion I prefer mine cold.  Mine is the truer wisdom.  You can give the cook my compliments, Phyllis, and tell her—­gently, for I don’t wish the glad news to overwhelm her—­that I enjoyed that cake.  Say that I shall be glad to hear from her again.  Care for a game of tennis, Garnet?”

“What a pity Norah isn’t here,” said Phyllis.  “We could have had a four.”

“But she is at present wasting her sweetness on the desert air of Yeovil.  You had better sit down and watch us, Phyllis.  Tennis in this sort of weather is no job for the delicately-nurtured feminine.  I will explain the finer points of my play as we go on.  Look out particularly for the Tilden Back-Handed Slosh.  A winner every time.”

We proceeded to the tennis court.  I played with the sun in my eyes.  I might, if I chose, emphasise that fact, and attribute my subsequent rout to it, adding, by way of solidifying the excuse, that I was playing in a strange court with a borrowed racquet, and that my mind was preoccupied—­firstly, with l’affaire Hawk, secondly, and chiefly, with the gloomy thought that Phyllis and my opponent seemed to be on friendly terms with each other.  Their manner at tea had been almost that of an engaged couple.  There was a thorough understanding between them.  I will not, however, take refuge behind excuses.  I admit, without qualifying the statement, that Mr. Chase was too good for me.  I had always been under the impression that lieutenants in the Royal Navy were not brilliant at tennis.  I had