His age was possibly nineteen, and his general appearance had decided
the members of his last gunroom mess in their choice of a nickname for
him. "Little Boy Blue," or "Boy" for short, would probably stick to him
throughout his naval career. The name had certainly followed him to his
present appointment as "third hand" of a destroyer, where the other
sub-lieutenants of the flotilla were not likely to allow him to forget
it. He would have made a perfect model for a Burne-Jones angel. His
mother would have worded that comparison differently, being under the
impression that no angel could hope to equal him: on his part, he always
took most filial care not to disillusion her on such a point. At the
moment, in the first flush of glory induced by the fact that he had
left gunroom life for ever, and that his midshipman's patches were
things of the recent past, he was making the most of a week's leave, and
making the most also of the opportunity of cultivating the society of a
home Attraction whom the discerning eyes of his mother may or may not
have yet noticed. The Attraction was aged sixteen, extremely pretty,
and, as is usual in such cases, extremely self-possessed.
The Boy, as he accompanied her along the garden path, was not feeling
self-possessed at all. He had discovered from frequent experience that
the only position he could retain with reference to the lady as she
walked was, as he would put it, "half a cable on the starboard quarter."
Knowing as he did that he was being kept thus distant by intention, he
followed the broad lines of strategy which his naval training had taught
him, and acted in a way which on such occasions is always right--that
is, he aroused doubt and curiosity in the mind of his adversary.
The lady, who--carrying a ball of string in one hand and a bowl of
peas in the other--had walked in cool silence for at least fifty
yards, turned suddenly and spoke.
"I suppose this is the first time you've----What _are_ you staring at?"