CHAPTER IV.

SAM CLICKS

§ 1

It was the fourth morning of the voyage. Of course, when this story is

done in the movies they won’t be satisfied with a bald statement like

that; they will have a Spoken Title or a Cut-Back Sub-Caption or

whatever they call the thing in the low dens where motion-picture

scenario-lizards do their dark work, which will run:—

AND SO, CALM AND GOLDEN, THE DAYS WENT BY, EACH FRAUGHT WITH HOPE AND

YOUTH AND SWEETNESS, LINKING TWO YOUNG HEARTS IN SILKEN FETTERS FORGED

BY THE LAUGHING LOVE-GOD.

and the males in the audience will shift their chewing gum to the other

cheek and take a firmer grip of their companion’s hands and the man at

the piano will play “Everybody wants a key to my cellar,” or something

equally appropriate, very soulfully and slowly, with a wistful eye on

the half-smoked cigarette which he has parked on the lowest octave and

intends finishing as soon as the picture is over. But I prefer the

plain frank statement that it was the fourth day of the voyage. That is

my story and I mean to stick to it.

Samuel Marlowe, muffled in a bathrobe, came back to the state-room from

his tub. His manner had the offensive jauntiness of the man who has had

a cold bath when he might just as easily have had a hot one. He looked

out of the porthole at the shimmering sea. He felt strong and happy and

exuberant.

It was not merely the spiritual pride induced by a cold bath that was

uplifting this young man. The fact was that, as he towelled his glowing

back, he had suddenly come to the decision that this very day he would

propose to Wilhelmina Bennett. Yes, he would put his fortune to the

test, to win or lose it all. True, he had only known her for four days,

but what of that?

Nothing in the way of modern progress is more remarkable than the

manner in which the attitude of your lover has changed concerning

proposals of marriage. When Samuel Marlowe’s grandfather had convinced

himself, after about a year and a half of respectful aloofness, that

the emotion which he felt towards Samuel Marlowe’s grandmother-to-be

was love, the fashion of the period compelled him to approach the

matter in a roundabout way. First, he spent an evening or two singing

sentimental ballads, she accompanying him on the piano and the rest of

the family sitting on the side-lines to see that no rough stuff was

pulled. Having noted that she drooped her eyelashes and turned faintly

pink when he came to the “Thee—only thee!” bit, he felt a mild sense of

encouragement, strong enough to justify him in taking her sister aside

next day and asking if the object of his affections ever happened to

mention his name in the course of conversation. Further _pour-parlers_

having passed with her aunt, two more sisters, and her little brother,

he felt that the moment had arrived when he might send her a volume of

Shelley, with some of the passages marked in pencil. A few weeks later,

he interviewed her father and obtained his consent to the paying of his

addresses. And finally, after writing her a letter which began “Madam,

you will not have been insensible to the fact that for some time past

you have inspired in my bosom feelings deeper than those of ordinary

friendship....” he waylaid her in the rose-garden and brought the thing

off.

How different is the behaviour of the modern young man. His courtship

can hardly be called a courtship at all. His methods are those of Sir

W. S. Gilbert’s Alphonso.

“Alphonso, who for cool assurance all creation licks,

He up and said to Emily who has cheek enough for six:

‘Miss Emily, I love you. Will you marry? Say the word!’

And Emily said: ‘Certainly, Alphonso, like a bird!’”

Sam Marlowe was a warm supporter of the Alphonso method. He was a

bright young man and did not require a year to make up his mind that

Wilhelmina Bennett had been set apart by Fate from the beginning of

time to be his bride. He had known it from the moment he saw her on the

dock, and all the subsequent strolling, reading, talking,

soup-drinking, tea-drinking, and shuffle-board-playing which they had

done together had merely solidified his original impression. He loved

this girl with all the force of a fiery nature—the fiery nature of the

Marlowes was a by-word in Bruton Street, Berkeley Square—and something

seemed to whisper that she loved him. At any rate she wanted somebody

like Sir Galahad, and, without wishing to hurl bouquets at himself, he

could not see where she could possibly get anyone liker Sir Galahad

than himself. So, wind and weather permitting, Samuel Marlowe intended

to propose to Wilhelmina Bennett this very day.

He let down the trick basin which hung beneath the mirror and,

collecting his shaving materials, began to lather his face.

“I am the Bandolero!” sang Sam blithely through the soap. “I am, I am

the Bandolero! Yes, yes, I am the Bandolero!”

The untidy heap of bedclothes in the lower berth stirred restlessly.

“Oh, God!” said Eustace Hignett thrusting out a tousled head.

Sam regarded his cousin with commiseration. Horrid things had been

happening to Eustace during the last few days, and it was quite a

pleasant surprise each morning to find that he was still alive.

“Feeling bad again, old man?”

“I was feeling all right,” replied Hignett churlishly, “until you began

the farmyard imitations. What sort of a day is it?”

“Glorious! The sea....”

“Don’t talk about the sea!”

“Sorry! The sun is shining brighter than it has ever shone in the

history of the race. Why don’t you get up?”

“Nothing will induce me to get up.”

“Well, go a regular buster and have an egg for breakfast.”

Eustace Hignett shuddered. He eyed Sam sourly. “You seem devilish

pleased with yourself this morning!” he said censoriously.

Sam dried the razor carefully and put it away. He hesitated. Then the

desire to confide in somebody got the better of him.

“The fact is,” he said apologetically, “I’m in love!”

“In love!” Eustace Hignett sat up and bumped his head sharply against

the berth above him. “Has this been going on long?”

“Ever since the voyage started.”

“I think you might have told me,” said Eustace reproachfully. “I told

you my troubles. Why did you not let me know that this awful thing had

come upon you?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, old man, during these last few days I had a

notion that your mind was, so to speak, occupied elsewhere.”

“Who is she?”

“Oh, a girl I met on board.”

“Don’t do it!” said Eustace Hignett solemnly. “As a friend I entreat

you not to do it. Take my advice, as a man who knows women, and don’t

do it!”

“Don’t do what?”

“Propose to her. I can tell by the glitter in your eye that you are

intending to propose to this girl—probably this morning.”

“Not this morning—after lunch. I always think one can do oneself more

justice after lunch.”

“Don’t do it. Women are the devil, whether they marry you or jilt you.

Do you realise that women wear black evening dresses that have to be

hooked up in a hurry when you are late for the theatre, and that, out

of sheer wanton malignity, the hooks and eyes on those dresses are also

made black? Do you realise...?”

“Oh, I’ve thought it all out.”

“And take the matter of children. How would you like to become the

father—and a mere glance around you will show you that the chances are

enormously in favour of such a thing happening—of a boy with spectacles

and protruding front teeth who asks questions all the time? Out of six

small boys whom I saw when I came on board, four wore spectacles and

had teeth like rabbits. The other two were equally revolting in

different styles. How would you like to become the father...?”

“There is no need to be indelicate,” said Sam stiffly. “A man must take

these chances.”

“Give her the miss in baulk,” pleaded Hignett. “Stay down here for the

rest of the voyage. You can easily dodge her when you get to

Southampton. And, if she sends messages, say you’re ill and can’t be

disturbed.”

Sam gazed at him, revolted. More than ever he began to understand how

it was that a girl with ideals had broken off her engagement with this

man. He finished dressing, and, after a satisfying breakfast, went on

deck.

§ 2

It was, as he had said, a glorious morning. The sample which he had had

through the porthole had not prepared him for the magic of it. The ship

swam in a vast bowl of the purest blue on an azure carpet flecked with

silver. It was a morning which impelled a man to great deeds, a morning

which shouted to him to chuck his chest out and be romantic. The sight

of Billie Bennett, trim and gleaming in a pale green sweater and white

skirt had the effect of causing Marlowe to alter the programme which he

had sketched out. Proposing to this girl was not a thing to be put off

till after lunch. It was a thing to be done now and at once. The finest

efforts of the finest cooks in the world could not put him in better

form than he felt at present.

“Good morning, Miss Bennett.”

“Good morning, Mr. Marlowe.”

“Isn’t it a perfect day?”

“Wonderful!”

“It makes all the difference on board ship if the weather is fine.”

“Yes, doesn’t it?”

How strange it is that the great emotional scenes of history, one of

which is coming along almost immediately, always begin in this prosaic

way. Shakespeare tries to conceal the fact, but there can be little

doubt that Romeo and Juliet edged into their balcony scene with a few

remarks on the pleasantness of the morning.

“Shall we walk round?” said Billie.

Sam glanced about him. It was the time of day when the promenade deck

was always full. Passengers in cocoons of rugs lay on chairs, waiting

in a dull trance till the steward should arrive with the eleven o’clock

soup. Others, more energetic, strode up and down. From the point of

view of a man who wished to reveal his most sacred feelings to a

beautiful girl, the place was practically a tube station during the

rush hour.

“It’s so crowded,” he said. “Let’s go on to the upper deck.”

“All right. You can read to me. Go and fetch your Tennyson.”

Sam felt that fortune was playing into his hands. His four-days’

acquaintance with the bard had been sufficient to show him that the man

was there forty ways when it came to writing about love. You could open

his collected works almost anywhere and shut your eyes and dab down

your finger on some red-hot passage. A proposal of marriage is a thing

which it is rather difficult to bring neatly into the ordinary run of

conversation. It wants leading up to. But, if you once start reading

poetry, especially Tennyson’s, almost anything is apt to give you your

cue. He bounded light-heartedly into the state-room, waking Eustace

Hignett from an uneasy dose.

“Now what?” said Eustace.

“Where’s that copy of Tennyson you gave me? I left it—ah, here it is.

Well, see you later!”

“Wait! What are you going to do?”

“Oh, that girl I told you about,” said Sam making for the door. “She

wants me to read Tennyson to her on the upper deck.”

“Tennyson?”

“Yes.”

“On the upper deck?”

“Yes.”

“This is the end,” said Eustace Hignett, turning his face to the wall.

Sam raced up the companion-way as far as it went; then, going out on

deck, climbed a flight of steps and found himself in the only part of

the ship which was ever even comparatively private. The main herd of

passengers preferred the promenade deck, two layers below.

He threaded his way through a maze of boats, ropes, and curious-shaped

steel structures which the architect of the ship seemed to have tacked

on at the last moment in a spirit of sheer exuberance. Above him

towered one of the funnels, before him a long, slender mast. He hurried

on, and presently came upon Billie sitting on a garden seat, backed by

the white roof of the smoke-room; beside this was a small deck which

seemed to have lost its way and strayed up here all by itself. It was

the deck on which one could occasionally see the patients playing an

odd game with long sticks and bits of wood—not shuffleboard but

something even lower in the mental scale. This morning, however, the

devotees of this pastime were apparently under proper restraint, for

the deck was empty.

“This is jolly,” he said sitting down beside the girl and drawing a

deep breath of satisfaction.

“Yes, I love this deck. It’s so peaceful.”

“It’s the only part of the ship where you can be reasonably sure of not

meeting stout men in flannels and nautical caps. An ocean voyage always

makes me wish that I had a private yacht.”

“It would be nice.”

“A private yacht,” repeated Sam, sliding a trifle closer. “We would

sail about, visiting desert islands which lay like jewels in the heart

of tropic seas.”

“We?”

“Most certainly we. It wouldn’t be any fun if you were not there.”

“That’s very complimentary.”

“Well, it wouldn’t. I’m not fond of girls as a rule....”

“Oh, aren’t you?”

“No!” said Sam decidedly. It was a point which he wished to make clear

at the outset. “Not at all fond. My friends have often remarked upon

it. A palmist once told me that I had one of those rare spiritual

natures which cannot be satisfied with substitutes but must seek and

seek till they find their soul-mate. When other men all round me were

frittering away their emotions in idle flirtations which did not touch

their deeper natures, I was ... I was ... well, I wasn’t, if you see

what I mean.”

“Oh, you wasn’t ... weren’t?”

“No. Some day I knew I should meet the only girl I could possibly love,

and then I would pour out upon her the stored-up devotion of a

lifetime, lay an unblemished heart at her feet, fold her in my arms and

say ‘At last!’”

“How jolly for her. Like having a circus all to oneself.”

“Well, yes,” said Sam after a momentary pause.

“When I was a child I always thought that that would be the most

wonderful thing in the world.”

“The most wonderful thing in the world is love, a pure and consuming

love, a love which....”

“Oh, hello!” said a voice.

All through this scene, right from the very beginning of it, Sam had

not been able to rid himself of a feeling that there was something

missing. The time and the place and the girl—they were all present and

correct; nevertheless there was something missing, some familiar object

which seemed to leave a gap. He now perceived that what had caused the

feeling was the complete absence of Bream Mortimer. He was absent no

longer. He was standing in front of them with one leg, his head lowered

as if he were waiting for someone to scratch it. Sam’s primary impulse

was to offer him a nut.

“Oh, hello, Bream!” said Billie.

“Hullo!” said Sam.

“Hello!” said Bream Mortimer. “Here you are!”

There was a pause.

“I thought you might be here,” said Bream.

“Yes, here we are,” said Billie.

“Yes, we’re here,” said Sam.

There was another pause.

“Mind if I join you?” said Bream.

“N—no,” said Billie.

“N—no,” said Sam.

“No,” said Billie again. “No ... that is to say ... oh no, not at all.”

There was a third pause.

“On second thoughts,” said Bream, “I believe I’ll take a stroll on the

promenade deck if you don’t mind.”

They said they did not mind. Bream Mortimer, having bumped his head

twice against overhanging steel ropes, melted away.

“Who is that fellow?” demanded Sam wrathfully.

“He’s the son of father’s best friend.”

Sam started. Somehow this girl had always been so individual to him

that he had never thought of her having a father.

“We have known each other all our lives,” continued Billie. “Father

thinks a tremendous lot of Bream. I suppose it was because Bream was

sailing by her that father insisted on my coming over on this boat. I’m

in disgrace, you know. I was cabled for and had to sail at a few days’

notice. I....”

“Oh, hello!”

“Why, Bream!” said Billie looking at him as he stood on the old spot in

the same familiar attitude with rather less affection than the son of

her father’s best friend might have expected. “I thought you said you

were going down to the promenade deck.

“I did go down to the promenade deck. And I’d hardly got there when a

fellow who’s getting up the ship’s concert to-morrow night nobbled me

to do something for it. I said I could only do conjuring tricks and

juggling and so on, and he said all right, do conjuring tricks and

juggling, then. He wanted to know if I knew anyone else who would help.

I came up to ask you,” he said to Sam, “if you would do something.”

“No,” said Sam. “I won’t.”

“He’s got a man who’s going to lecture on deep-sea fish and a couple of

women who both want to sing ‘The Rosary’ but he’s still a turn or two

short. Sure you won’t rally round?”

“Quite sure.”

“Oh, all right.” Bream Mortimer hovered wistfully above them. “It’s a

great morning, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Sam.

“Oh, Bream!” said Billie.

“Hello?”

“Do be a pet and go and talk to Jane Hubbard. I’m sure she must be

feeling lonely. I left her all by herself down on the next deck.”

A look of alarm spread itself over Bream’s face.

“Jane Hubbard! Oh, say, have a heart!”

“She’s a very nice girl.”

“She’s so darned dynamic. She looks at you as if you were a giraffe or

something and she would like to take a pot at you with a rifle.”

“Nonsense! Run along. Get her to tell you some of her big-game hunting

experiences. They are most interesting.”

Bream drifted sadly away.

“I don’t blame Miss Hubbard,” said Sam.

“What do you mean?”

“Looking at him as if she wanted to pot at him with a rifle. I should

like to do it myself.”

“Oh, don’t let’s talk about Bream. Read me some Tennyson.”

Sam opened the book very willingly. Infernal Bream Mortimer had

absolutely shot to pieces the spell which had begun to fall on them at

the beginning of their conversation. Only by reading poetry, it seemed

to him, could it be recovered. And when he saw the passage at which the

volume had opened he realised that his luck was in. Good old Tennyson!

He was all right. He had the stuff. You could rely on him every time.

He cleared his throat.

“Oh let the solid ground

Not fail beneath my feet

Before my life has found

What some have found so sweet;

Then let come what come may,

What matter if I go mad,

I shall have had my day.

Let the sweet heavens endure,

Not close and darken above me

Before I am quite quite sure

That there is one to love me....”

This was absolutely topping. It was like diving off a spring-board. He

could see the girl sitting with a soft smile on her face, her eyes, big

and dreamy, gazing out over the sunlit sea. He laid down the book and

took her hand.

“There is something,” he began in a low voice, “which I have been

trying to say ever since we met, something which I think you must have

read in my eyes.”

Her head was bent. She did not withdraw her hand.

“Until this voyage began,” he went on, “I did not know what life meant.

And then I saw you! It was like the gate of heaven opening. You’re the

dearest girl I ever met, and you can bet I’ll never forget....” He

stopped. “I’m not trying to make it rhyme,” he said apologetically.

“Billie, don’t think me silly ... I mean ... if you had the merest

notion, dearest ... I don’t know what’s the matter with me ... Billie,

darling, you are the only girl in the world! I have been looking for

you for years and years and I have found you at last, my soul-mate.

Surely this does not come as a surprise to you? That is, I mean, you

must have seen that I’ve been keen.... There’s that damned Walt Mason

stuff again!” His eyes fell on the volume beside him and he uttered an

exclamation of enlightenment. “It’s those poems!” he cried. “I’ve been

boning them up to such an extent that they’ve got me doing it too. What

I’m trying to say is, Will you marry me?”

She was drooping towards him. Her face was very sweet and tender, her

eyes misty. He slid an arm about her waist. She raised her lips to his.

§ 3

Suddenly she drew herself away, a cloud on her face.

“Darling,” she said, “I’ve a confession to make.”

“A confession? You? Nonsense!”

“I can’t get rid of a horrible thought. I was wondering if this will

last.”

“Our love? Don’t be afraid that it will fade ... I mean ... why, it’s

so vast, it’s bound to last ... that is to say, of course it will.”

She traced a pattern on the deck with her shoe.

“I’m afraid of myself. You see, once before—and it was not so very long

ago,—I thought I had met my ideal, but....”

Sam laughed heartily.

“Are you worrying about that absurd business of poor old Eustace

Hignett?”

She started violently.

“You know!”

“Of course! He told me himself.”

“Do you know him? Where did you meet him?”

“I’ve known him all my life. He’s my cousin. As a matter of fact, we

are sharing a state-room on board now.”

“Eustace is on board! Oh, this is awful! What shall I do when I meet

him?”

“Oh, pass it off with a light laugh and a genial quip. Just say: ‘Oh,

here you are!’ or something. You know the sort of thing.”

“It will be terrible.”

“Not a bit of it. Why should you feel embarrassed? He must have

realised by now that you acted in the only possible way. It was absurd

his ever expecting you to marry him. I mean to say, just look at it

dispassionately ... Eustace ... poor old Eustace ... and _you!_ The

Princess and the Swineherd!”

“Does Mr. Hignett keep pigs?” she asked, surprised.

“I mean that poor old Eustace is so far below you, darling, that, with

the most charitable intentions, one can only look on his asking you to

marry him in the light of a record exhibition of pure nerve. A dear,

good fellow, of course, but hopeless where the sterner realities of

life are concerned. A man who can’t even stop a dog-fight! In a world

which is practically one seething mass of fighting dogs, how could you

trust yourself to such a one? Nobody is fonder of Eustace Hignett than

I am, but ... well, I mean to say!”

“I see what you mean. He really wasn’t my ideal.”

“Not by a mile!”

She mused, her chin in her hand.

“Of course, he was quite a dear in a lot of ways.”

“Oh, a splendid chap,” said Sam tolerantly.

“Have you ever heard him sing? I think what first attracted me to him

was his beautiful voice. He really sings extraordinarily well.”

A slight but definite spasm of jealousy afflicted Sam. He had no

objection to praising poor old Eustace within decent limits, but the

conversation seemed to him to be confining itself too exclusively to

one subject.

“Yes?” he said. “Oh yes, I’ve heard him sing. Not lately. He does

drawing-room ballads and all that sort of thing still, I suppose?”

“Have you ever heard him sing ‘My love is like a glowing tulip that in

an old-world garden grows’?”

“I have not had that advantage,” replied Sam stiffly. “But anyone can

sing a drawing-room ballad. Now something funny, something that will

make people laugh, something that really needs putting across ...

that’s a different thing altogether.”

“Do you sing that sort of thing?”

“People have been good enough to say....”

“Then,” said Billie decidedly, “you must certainly do something at the

ship’s concert to-morrow! The idea of your trying to hide your light

under a bushel! I will tell Bream to count on you. He is an excellent

accompanist. He can accompany you.”

“Yes, but ... well, I don’t know,” said Sam doubtfully. He could not

help remembering that the last time he had sung in public had been at a

house-supper at school, seven years before, and that on that occasion

somebody whom it was a lasting grief to him that he had been unable to

identify had thrown a pat of butter at him.

“Of course you must sing,” said Billie. “I’ll tell Bream when I go down

to lunch. What will you sing?”

“Well—er—”

“Well, I’m sure it will be wonderful whatever it is. You are so

wonderful in every way. You remind me of one of the heroes of old!”

Sam’s discomposure vanished. In the first place, this was much more the

sort of conversation which he felt the situation indicated. In the

second place he had remembered that there was no need for him to sing

at all. He could do that imitation of Frank Tinney which had been such

a hit at the Trinity smoker. He was on safe ground there. He knew he

was good. He clasped the girl to him and kissed her sixteen times.

§ 4

Billie Bennett stood in front of the mirror in her state-room dreamily

brushing the glorious red hair that fell in a tumbled mass about her

shoulders. On the lounge beside her, swathed in a business-like grey

kimono, Jane Hubbard watched her, smoking a cigarette.

Jane Hubbard was a splendid specimen of bronzed, strapping womanhood.

Her whole appearance spoke of the open air and the great wide spaces

and all that sort of thing. She was a thoroughly wholesome, manly girl,

about the same age as Billie, with a strong chin and an eye that had

looked leopards squarely in the face and caused them to withdraw

abashed into the undergrowth, or wherever it is that leopards withdraw

when abashed. One could not picture Jane Hubbard flirting lightly at

garden parties, but one could picture her very readily arguing with a

mutinous native bearer, or with a firm touch putting sweetness and

light into the soul of a refractory mule. Boadicea in her girlhood must

have been rather like Jane Hubbard.

She smoked contentedly. She had rolled her cigarette herself with one

hand, a feat beyond the powers of all but the very greatest. She was

pleasantly tired after walking eighty-five times round the promenade

deck. Soon she would go to bed and fall asleep the moment her head

touched the pillow. But meanwhile she lingered here, for she felt that

Billie had something to confide in her.

“Jane,” said Billie, “have you ever been in love?”

Jane Hubbard knocked the ash off her cigarette.

“Not since I was eleven,” she said in her deep musical voice. “He was

my music-master. He was forty-seven and completely bald, but there was

an appealing weakness in him which won my heart. He was afraid of cats,

I remember.”

Billie gathered her hair into a molten bundle and let it run through

her fingers.

“Oh, Jane!” she exclaimed. “Surely you don’t like weak men. I like a

man who is strong and brave and wonderful.”

“I can’t stand brave men,” said Jane, “it makes them so independent. I

could only love a man who would depend on me in everything. Sometimes,

when I have been roughing it out in the jungle,” she went on rather

wistfully, “I have had my dreams of some gentle clinging man who would

put his hand in mine and tell me all his poor little troubles and let

me pet and comfort him and bring the smiles back to his face. I’m

beginning to want to settle down. After all there are other things for

a woman to do in this life besides travelling and big-game hunting. I

should like to go into Parliament. And, if I did that, I should

practically have to marry. I mean, I should have to have a man to look

after the social end of life and arrange parties and receptions and so

on, and sit ornamentally at the head of my table. I can’t imagine

anything jollier than marriage under conditions like that. When I came

back a bit done up after a long sitting at the House, he would mix me a

whisky-and-soda and read poetry to me or prattle about all the things

he had been doing during the day.... Why, it would be ideal!”

Jane Hubbard gave a little sigh. Her fine eyes gazed dreamily at a

smoke ring which she had sent floating towards the ceiling.

“Jane,” said Billie. “I believe you’re thinking of somebody definite.

Who is he?”

The big-game huntress blushed. The embarrassment which she exhibited

made her look manlier than ever.

“I don’t know his name.”

“But there is really someone?”

“Yes.”

“How splendid! Tell me about him.”

Jane Hubbard clasped her strong hands and looked down at the floor.

“I met him on the Subway a couple of days before I left New York. You

know how crowded the Subway is at the rush hour. I had a seat, of

course, but this poor little fellow—_so_ good-looking, my dear! he

reminded me of the pictures of Lord Byron—was hanging from a strap and

being jerked about till I thought his poor little arms would be

wrenched out of their sockets. And he looked so unhappy, as though he

had some secret sorrow. I offered him my seat, but he wouldn’t take it.

A couple of stations later, however, the man next to me got out and he

sat down and we got into conversation. There wasn’t time to talk much.

I told him I had been down-town fetching an elephant-gun which I had

left to be mended. He was so prettily interested when I showed him the

mechanism. We got along famously. But—oh, well, it was just another

case of ships that pass in the night—I’m afraid I’ve been boring you.”

“Oh, Jane! You haven’t! You see ... you see, I’m in love myself.”

“I had an idea you were,” said her friend looking at her critically.

“You’ve been refusing your oats the last few days, and that’s a sure

sign. Is he that fellow that’s always around with you and who looks

like a parrot?”

“Bream Mortimer? Good gracious, no!” cried Billie indignantly. “As if I

should fall in love with Bream!”

“When I was out in British East Africa,” said Miss Hubbard, “I had a

bird that was the living image of Bream Mortimer. I taught him to

whistle ‘Annie Laurie’ and to ask for his supper in three native

dialects. Eventually he died of the pip, poor fellow. Well, if it isn’t

Bream Mortimer, who is it?”

“His name is Marlowe. He’s tall and handsome and very strong-looking.

He reminds me of a Greek god.”

“Ugh!” said Miss Hubbard.

“Jane, we’re engaged.”

“No!” said the huntress, interested. “When can I meet him?”

“I’ll introduce you to-morrow I’m so happy.”

“That’s fine!”

“And yet, somehow,” said Billie, plaiting her hair, “do you ever have

presentiments? I can’t get rid of an awful feeling that something’s

going to happen to spoil everything.”

“What could spoil everything?”

“Well, I think him so wonderful, you know. Suppose he were to do

anything to blur the image I have formed of him.”

“Oh, he won’t. You said he was one of those strong men, didn’t you?

They always run true to form. They never do anything except be strong.”

Billie looked meditatively at her reflection in the glass.

“You know I thought I was in love once before, Jane.”

“Yes?”

“We were going to be married and I had actually gone to the church. And

I waited and waited and he didn’t come; and what do you think had

happened?”

“What?”

“His mother had stolen his trousers.”

Jane Hubbard laughed heartily.

“It’s nothing to laugh at,” said Billie seriously “It was a tragedy. I

had always thought him romantic, and when this happened the scales

seemed to fall from my eyes. I saw that I had made a mistake.”

“And you broke off the engagement?”

“Of course!”

“I think you were hard on him. A man can’t help his mother stealing his

trousers.”

“No. But when he finds they’re gone, he can ’phone to the tailor for

some more or borrow the janitor’s or do _something_. But he simply

stayed where he was and didn’t do a thing. Just because he was too much

afraid of his mother to tell her straight out that he meant to be

married that day.”

“Now that,” said Miss Hubbard, “is just the sort of trait in a man

which would appeal to me. I like a nervous, shrinking man.”

“I don’t. Besides, it made him seem so ridiculous, and—I don’t know why

it is—I can’t forgive a man for looking ridiculous. Thank goodness, my

darling Sam couldn’t look ridiculous, even if he tried. He’s wonderful,

Jane. He reminds me of a knight of the Round Table. You ought to see

his eyes flash.”

Miss Hubbard got up and stretched herself with a yawn.

“Well, I’ll be on the promenade deck after breakfast to-morrow. If you

can arrange to have him flash his eyes then—say between nine-thirty and

ten—I shall be delighted to watch them.”