Stephen growled, “So I did⁠—but⁠—but I funked it.⁠ ⁠… I was drunk.” Then he burst out, “But, damn it, it’s nothing to do with you.⁠ ⁠… Turn her round⁠—I’m soaked.”

And then, at the sullen bitterness of his voice and his words, John Egerton remembered his rage, he remembered the black grievance and suspicion he had against this man. And though the impulse to pity and forbearance struggled still within him, he fought it down. He would be firm for once. The boats swung sideways in the wind, and drifted, rolling, round the bend.

He put his hand behind him on the starting-handle of the engine, as he said:

“We’re not going back yet, Stephen. I want to ask you something. What have you⁠—what have you been⁠—been doing to Muriel? What have you said to her⁠—about me, and about⁠—?”