Larke had a problem to consider. They discussed it in the Admiral’s dressing room as they reviewed his wardrobe, a task necessitated by his recent retirement from the British Navy. “Victoria is adamant in her opinion – she will not marry a naval officer?” “So she says, Frank.” “Well, that is rather insulting, considering her father’s profession.” “No, you mustn’t look at it in that light. She has the utmost respect for the British Navy and its members – particularly for you, of course. She simply does not wish to marry a sailor. This shirt collar needs mending. What do you think of the jacket?” she asked, pulling it from the trunk. “It will do.” “Here, stand up and try it on. I haven’t seen you wear it these past twenty years.” Mrs. Larke stretched up on tiptoe to assist her husband. The admiral’s figure was more distinguished than it had been in his civilian days, and the buttons failed to fasten. He began to flush with the effort, a common disadvantage in those of his red colouring.
