"I'm very well, thanks," he said. "Have you noticed those shores beyond
the canal? Samphire there just as we have it at home. Leagues of
samphire."

The younger man looked in the direction indicated cheerfully and blankly.
"'The samphire by the ocean's brim,'" he said lightly. "I attach no
importance to it whatever, but it's very like you to lift one into your
privacy at a moment's notice. I'm all for the formalities myself, so I
observe that I haven't seen you for years. Years! Not since--why, it must
be eighteen."

"It's precisely eight," said Senhouse, "and I've been abroad for four of
them."

His friend inspected him with candid interest. "At your old games, I take
it. You've filled England with hardy perennials and now you're starting on
Europe. Great field for you. You'll want a pretty big trowel, though. A
wheelbarrow might be handy, I should have said."

Senhouse fired. "I've been planting the Black Forest, you see. Great
games. They gave me a free hand, and ten thousand marks a year to spend.
I've done some rather showy things. Now I want to go to Tibet."

The other's attention had wandered. "I saw you come on board," he said. "I
watched you play the Squire of Dames to a rather pretty woman whom I
happen to know. She was a Mrs. Germain in those days."

"She still calls herself so," Senhouse said. He was staring straight
before him out to sea. The steamer was under way.