The Corbetts is Happened They beat up to Southampton Water in the failing light. It was pitch dark when he dropped anchor in two fathoms a mile or so above Calshott. Below them the flying boats swung at their moorings; a flare path was laid out on floats upon the surface of the water. There was much going to and fro in motor boats to the aircraft at their moorings; now and again one of the machines slipped away, taxied to the end of the flare path, and roared off into the night.
Corbett stayed for some time on deck, stowing the sails and making all secure. Then he went down into the lamplit cabin. His wife was in the forecastle, busy over a stew on the Primus stove; his children were sleeping quietly in their bunks. He had a great feeling of security, of domesticity.
He began to lay the table for supper. "I tell you what," he said. "If we find we've got to go into Quarantine, I'd rather do it in some other port. If we could get down to Weymouth, now—or even Plymouth. We might be able to do it there without being bombed all the time."
She did not answer.
He asked, "What do you think about that?"
She said, "Supper's ready. Let's eat this while it's hot. We can talk about our plans afterwards."
They were both very hungry. Half an hour later, full gorged, Joan leaned back against the cushioned settee and blew a long cloud of cigarette smoke.
"Peter," she said. "Where are we going to from here?"
"What do you mean?"