“Silly fools,” Miss Abbott thought dully, having not the smallest interest in television personalities. Presently she began to wonder if she really would throw the photograph overboard when the ship was out at sea. Suppose she were to tear it up now and drop the pieces in the wastepaper basket? Or into the harbour? How lonely she would be then! The heavily knuckled fingers drummed on the bony knees and their owner began to think about things going overboard into the harbour. The water would be cold and dirty, polluted by the excreta of ships; revolting!

“Oh, God!” Miss Abbott said. “How hellishly unhappy I am.”

Dennis knocked at her door.

“Telegram, Miss Abbott,” he fluted.

“Telegram? For me? Yes?”

He unhooked the door and came in.

Miss Abbott took the telegram and shakily opened it. It fluttered between her fingers.

DARLING ABBEY SO MISERABLE DO PLEASE WRITE OR IF NOT TOO LATE TELEPHONE. F.

Dennis had lingered. Miss Abbott said shakily, “Can I send an answer?”

“Well — ye-ees. I mean to say—”

“Or telephone? Can I telephone?”

“There’s a ’phone on board, but I seen a queue lined up when I passed.”

“How long before we sail?”

“An hour, near enough, but the ’phone goes off earlier.”

Miss Abbott said distractedly, “It’s very important. Very urgent indeed.”

“ ’Tch, ’tch.”

“Wait. Didn’t I see a call box on the dock? Near the place where the bus stopped?”

“That’s correct,” he said appreciatively. “Fancy you noticing!”

“I’ve time to go off, haven’t I?”

“Plenty of time, Miss Abbott. Oodles.”

“I’ll do that. I’ll go at once.”

“There’s coffee and sandwiches on in the dining-room

“I don’t want them. I’ll go now.”