"Sounds a bit dreary," said Miss Davidson. "Tell me, is he a fearful stick? Will he start weeping in my arms and telling me I'm just like his late wife? Some of them do that."

"I suppose he might," said Mary uncertainly. "I've never met him. Half a minute while I ask Peter." She came back to the telephone. "Moira? Peter says he'll probably start knocking you about when he gets a skinful."

"That's better," said Miss Davidson. "All right, I'll come over on Saturday morning. By the way, I've given up gin."

"Given up gin?"

"Rots your insides. Perforates the intestine and gives you ulcers. I've been having them each morning, so I've given it away. It's brandy now. About six bottles, I should think-for the week-end. You can drink a lot of brandy."

On Saturday morning Peter Holmes rode down to Falmouth station on his push bike. He met Moira Davidson there. She was a slightly built girl with straight blonde hair and a white face, the daughter of a grazier with a small property at a place called Harkaway near Berwick. She arrived at the station in a very smart four-wheeled trap, snatched from some junk yard and reconditioned at considerable expense a year before, with a good-looking, high-spirited grey mare between the shafts. She was wearing slacks of the brightest red and a shirt of the same colour, with lips, fingernails, and toenails to match. She waved to Peter, who went to the horse's head, got down from her outfit, and tied the reins loosely to a rail where once the passengers had stood in line before boarding the bus. "Morning, Peter," she said. "Boy friend not turned up?"

"He'll be on this train coming now," he said. "What time did you leave home?" She had driven twenty miles to Falmouth.

"Eight o'clock. Ghastly."

"You've had breakfast?"

She nodded. "Brandy. I'm going to have another one before I get up in that jinker again."

He was concerned for her. "Haven't you had anything to eat?"

"Eat? Bacon and eggs and all that muck? My dear child, the Symes had a party last night. I'd have sicked it up."

They turned to walk together to meet the train. "What time did you get to bed?" he asked.

"About half-past two."

"I don't know how you can keep it up. I couldn't."

"I can. I can keep it up as long as I've got to, and that's not so long now. I mean, why waste time in sleeping?" She laughed, a little shrilly. "Just doesn't make sense."

He did not reply because she was quite right, only it wasn't his own way. They stood and waited till the train came in, and met Commander Towers on the platform. He came in civilian clothes, a light grey jacket and fawn drill trousers, slightly American in cut, so that he stood out as a stranger in the crowd.

Peter Holmes made the introductions. As they walked down the ramp from the platforms the American said, "I haven't ridden a bicycle in years. I'll probably fall off."

"We're doing better for you than that," Peter said. "Moira's got her jinker here."

The other wrinkled his brows. "I didn't get that."

"Sports car," the girl said. "Jaguar XK. 140. Thunderbird to you, I suppose. New model, only one horsepower, but she does a good eight miles an hour on the flat. Christ, I want a drink!"

They came to the jinker with the grey standing in the shafts; she went to untie the reins. The American stood back and looked it over, gleaming in the sun and very smart. "Say," he exclaimed, "this is quite a buggy you've got!"

Moira stood back and laughed. "A buggy! That's the word for it. It's a buggy, isn't it? All right, Peter- that's not dirty. And anyway, it is. We've got a customline sitting in the garage, Commander Towers, but I didn't bring that. It's a buggy. Come on and get up into it, and I'll step on it and show you how she goes."

"I've got my bike here, sir," Peter said. "I'll ride that up and meet you at the house."

Commander Towers climbed up into the buggy and the girl got up beside him; she took the whip and turned the grey and trotted up the road behind the bicycle. "One thing I'm going to do before we leave town," she told her companion, "and that's have a drink. Peter's a dear, and Mary too, but they don't drink enough. Mary says it gives the baby colic. I hope you don't mind. You can have a Coke or something if you'd rather."

Commander Towers felt a little dazed, but refreshed. It was a long time since he had had to deal with this sort of a young woman. "I'll go along with you," he said. "I've swallowed enough Cokes in the last year to float my ship, periscope depth. I could use a drink."

"Then there's two of us," she remarked. She steered her outfit into the main street, not unskilfully. A few cars stood abandoned parked diagonally by the curb; they had been there for over a year. So little traffic used the streets that they were not in the way, and there had been no petrol to tow them away. She drew up outside the Pier Hotel and got down; she tied the reins to the bumper of one of these cars and went with her companion into the Ladies' Lounge.

He asked, "What can I order for you?"

"Double brandy."

"Water?"

"Just a little, and a lot of ice."

He gave the order to the barman and stood considering for a moment while the girl watched him. There never had been any rye, and there had been no Scotch for many months. He was unreasonably suspicious of Australian whisky. "I never drank brandy like that," he remarked. "What's it like?"

"No kick," the girl said, "but it creeps up on you. Good for the guts. That's the reason why I drink it."

"I guess I'll stick to whisky." He ordered, and then turned to her, amused. "You drink quite a lot, don't you?"

"That's what they tell me." She took the drink he handed to her and produced a pack of cigarettes from her bag, blended South African and Australian tobacco. "Have one of these things? They're horrible, but they're all that I could get."

He offered one of his own, equally horrible, and lit it for her. She blew a long cloud of smoke from her nostrils. "It's a change, anyway. What's your name?"

"Dwight," he told her. "Dwight Lionel."

"Dwight Lionel Towers," she repeated. "I'm Moira Davidson. We've got a grazing property about twenty miles from here. You're the captain of the submarine, aren't you?"

"That's right."

"Happy in your job?" she asked cynically.

"It was quite an honor to be given the command," he said quietly. "I reckon it's quite an honor still."

She dropped her eyes. "Sorry I said that. I'm a bit of a pig when I'm sober." She tossed off her drink. "Buy me another, Dwight."

He bought her another, but stood himself upon his whisky.

"Tell me," the girl asked, "what do you do when you're on leave? Play golf? Sail a boat? Go fishing?"

"Fishing, mostly," he said. A far-off holiday with Sharon in the Gaspé Peninsula floated through his mind, but he put the thought away. One must concentrate upon the present and forget the past. "It's kind of hot for golf," he said. "Commander Holmes said something about a swim."

"That's easy," she said. "There's a sailing race this afternoon, down at the club. Is that in your line?"

"It certainly is," he said, with pleasure in his voice. "What kind of a boat does he have?"

"A thing called a Gwen Twelve," she said. "It's a sort of watertight box with sails on it. I don't know if he wants to sail it himself. I'll crew for you if he doesn't."

"If we're going sailing," he said firmly, "we'd better stop drinking."

"I'm not going to crew for you if you're going to be all U.S. Navy," she retorted. "Our ships aren't dry, like yours."

"Okay," he said equably. "Then I'll crew for you."

She stared at him. "Has anyone ever bashed you over the head with a bottle?"

He smiled. "Lots of times."

She drained her glass. "Well, have another drink."

"No, thank you. The Holmes will be wondering what's become of us."

"They'll know," the girl said.

"Come on. I want to see the world from up in that jinker." He steered her towards the door.

She went with him unresisting. "It's a buggy," she said.

"No, it's not. We're in Australia now. It's a jinker."

"That's where you're wrong," she said. "It's a buggy -an Abbott buggy. It's over seventy years old. Daddy says it was built in America."

He looked at it with new interest. "Say," he exclaimed, "I was wondering where I'd seen it before. My grandpa had one just like it in the woodshed, up in Maine, when I was a boy."

She mustn't let him think about the past. "Just stand by her head as I back out of this," she said. "She's not so good in reverse." She swung herself up into the driving seat and tweaked the mare's mouth cruelly, so that he had plenty to do. The mare stood up and pawed at him with her forefeet; he managed to get her headed round towards the street and swung up beside the girl as they dashed off in a canter. Moira said, "She's a bit fresh. The hill'll stop her in a minute. These bloody bitumen roads…" The American sat clinging to his seat as they careered out of town, the mare slithering and sliding on the smooth surfaces, wondering that any girl could drive a horse so badly.

They came to the Holmes' house a few minutes later with the grey in a lather of sweat. The lieutenant commander and his wife came out to meet them. "Sorry we're late, Mary," the girl said coolly. "I couldn't get Commander Towers past the pub."

Peter remarked, "Looks like you've been making up lost time."

"We had quite a ride," the submarine commander observed. He got down and was introduced to Mary. Then he turned to the girl. "How would it be if I walk her up and down a little, till she cools off?"

"Fine," said the girl. "I should unharness her and put her in the paddock-Peter'll show you. I'll give Mary a hand with the lunch. Peter, Dwight wants to sail your boat this afternoon."