heir distant positions. On
each high forecastle the minute figures of men were visible moving
about the crawling cables, and from the funnels a slight increased haze
of smoke trembled upwards like the breath of war-horses in a frosty
landscape.

One by one the dripping anchors hove in sight. The water under the
sterns of the Battleships was convulsed by whirling vortices as the
great steel-shod bulks turned cautiously towards the entrance, like
partners revolving in some solemn gigantic minuet. The dusk was fast
closing down, but a saffron bar of light in the West still limned the
dark outlines of the far-off hills. One by one the majestic fighting
ships moved into their allotted places in the line, and presently

"Enormous, certain, slow...."

the lines began to move in succession towards the entrance and the open
sea.

The light died out of the western sky altogether, and like great grey
shadows the last of the Battle-squadrons melted into the mystery of the
night.

CHAPTER IX

"SWEETHEARTS AND WIVES"

Betty finished her breakfast very slowly; she had dawdled over it, not
because there was anything wrong with her appetite, but because the
days were long and meals made a sort of break in the monotony. She
rose from the table at length and walked to the open casement window; a
cat, curled up on the rug in front of the small wood fire, opened one
eye and blinked contemplatively at the slim figure in the silk shirt,
the short brown tweed skirt above the brown-stockinged ankles, and
finally at the neat brogues, one of which was tapping meditatively on
the carpet. Then he closed his eyes again.

"Would it be to-day?" wondered Betty for about the thousandth time in
the last eight days. She stared out across the little garden, the
broad stretch of pasture beyond the dusty road that ended in a confused
fringe of trees bordering the blue waters of the Firth. A flotilla of
Destroyers that had been lying at anchor overnight had slipped from
their buoys and were slowly circling towards the distant entrance to
the harbour. Beyond the Firth the hills rose again, vividly green and
crowned with trees.

A thrush in the unseen kitchen garden round a corner of the cottage
rehearsed a few bars of his spring song.

"It might be to-day," he sang. "It might, it might, it might--or it
mightn't!" He stopped abruptly.

Eight days had passed somehow since an enigmatic telegram from the
India-rubber Man had brou