 Chapter 1 of Three Men and a Maid Through the curtained windows of the furnished apartment which Mrs. Horace Hignett had rented for her stay in New York, rays of golden sunlight peeped in, like the foremost spies of some advancing army. It was a fine summer morning. The hands of the Dutch clock in the hall pointed to thirteen minutes past nine, those of the Ormaloo clock in the sitting room to eleven minutes past ten, those of the carriage-clock on the bookshelf to fourteen minutes past six. In other words, it was exactly eight. And Mrs. Hignett acknowledged the fact by moving her head on the pillow, opening her eyes, and sitting up in bed. She always woke at eight precisely. Was this Mrs. Hignett THE Mrs. Hignett, world-famous writer on Theosophy, author of The Spreading Light, what of the morrow, and all the rest of that well-known series? I'm glad you asked me. Yes, she was. She had come over to America on a lecturing tour. The year 1921 it will be remembered. Was a trying one for the inhabitant of the United States? Every boat that arrived from England brought a fresh swarm of British lecturers to the country—novelists, poets, scientists, philosophers, and plain ordinary boars. Some herd instincts seemed to affect them all simultaneously. It was like one of those great race movements of the Middle Ages. Men and women of widely differing views on religion, art, politics, and almost every other subject, on this one point the intellectuals of Great Britain were single-minded. That there was easy money to be picked up on the lecture-platforms of America, and that they might just as well grab it as the next person. Mrs. Hignett had come over with the first batch of immigrants. For spiritual as her writings were, there was a solid streak of business sense in this woman, and she meant to get hers while the getting was good. She was halfway across the Atlantic, with a complete itinerary booked before ninety percent of the poets and philosophers had finished sorting out their clean collars and getting their photographs taken for the passport. She had not left England without a pang, for departure had involved sacrifices. More than anything else in the world, she loved her charming home, Windles, in the county of Hampshire, for so many years the seat of the Hignett family. Windles was the breath of life to her. Its shady walks, its silver lake, its noble elms, the grey stone of its walls, these were bound up with her very being. She felt that she belonged to Windles, and Windles to her. Unfortunately as a matter of cold legal accuracy, it did not. She did but hold it in trust for her son Eustace, until such time as he should marry and take possession of it himself. There were times when the thought of Eustace marrying and bringing a strange woman to Windles chilled Mrs. Hignett to her very marrow. Happily her firm policy of keeping her son permanently under her eye at home, and never permitting him to have speech with a female below the age of fifty, had averted the peril, up till now. Eustace had accompanied his mother to America. It was his faint snores which she could hear in the adjoining room, as, having bathed and dressed, she went down the hall to where breakfast awaited her. She smiled tolerantly. She had never desired to convert her son to her own early rising habits, for, apart from not allowing him to call his soul his own, she was an indulgent mother. Eustace would get up at half-past nine, long after she had finished breakfast, read her mail, and started her duties for the day. Breakfast was on the table in the sitting-room, a modest meal of roll, cereal, and imitation coffee. Beside the pot containing this hell-brew was a little pile of letters. Mrs. Hignett opened them as she ate. The majority were from disciples, and dealt with matters of purely theosophical interest. There was an invitation from the Butterfly Club, asking her to be the guest of honour at their weekly dinner. There was a letter from her brother Malaby, Sir Malaby Marlowe, the element London lawyer, saying that his son, Sam, of whom she had never approved, would be in New York shortly, passing through on his way back to England, and hoping that she would see something of him, altogether a dull male. Mrs. Hignett skimmed through it without interest, setting aside one or two of the letters for Horace, who acted as her unpaid secretary to answer later in the day. She had just risen from the table when there was a sound of voices in the hall, and presently the domestic staff, a gaunt Irish lady who advanced years, entered the room. Madam, there was a gentleman. Mrs. Hignett was annoyed. Her mornings were sacred. Didn't you tell him I was not to be disturbed? I did not. I loosed him into the parlour. The staff remained for a moment in melancholy silence, then resumed. He says his your nephew, his name is Marlowe. Mrs. Hignett experienced no diminution of her annoyance. She had not seen her nephew Sam for ten years, and would have been willing to extend the period. She remembered him as an untidy small boy, who, once or twice during his school holidays, had disturbed the cloisteral piece of windows with his beastly presence. However, blood being thicker than water and all that sort of thing, she supposed she would have to give him five minutes. She went into the sitting-room, and found there a young man, who looked more or less like all other young men, though perhaps rather fitter than most. He had grown a good deal since she had last met him, as men will do between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five, and was now about six feet in height, about forty inches round the chest, and in weight about a hundred and eighty pounds. He had a brown and amiable face, marred at the moment by an expression of discomfort, somewhat akin to that of a cat in a strange alley. Hello, Aunt Adeline. He said awkwardly. Well, Samuel, said Mrs. Hignet. There was a pause. Mrs. Hignet, who was not fond of young men, and disliked having her mornings broken into, was thinking that he had not improved in the slightest degree since their last meeting, and Sam, who imagined that he had long since grown to man's estate and put off childish things, was embarrassed to discover that his aunt still affected him as of old. That is to say, she made him feel as if he had admitted to shave, and, in addition to that, had swallowed some drug which had caused him to swell unpleasantly, particularly about the hands and feet. Jolly morning! said Sam perseveringly. So I imagine I have not yet been out. Thought I'd look in and see how you were. That's very kind of you. The morning is my busy time, but yes, that was very kind of you. There was another pause. How do you like America? said Sam. I dislike it exceedingly. Yes, well, of course, some people do. Prohibition and all that. Personally, it doesn't affect me. I can take it or leave it alone. The reason I dislike America began Mrs. Hignet bridling. I like it myself, said Sam. I have had a wonderful time. Everybody has treated me like a rich uncle. I've been in Detroit, you know, and they practically gave me the city and asked me if I'd like another to take home in my pocket. Never saw anything like it. I might have been the missing heir. I think America is the greatest invention on record. And what brought you to America? said Mrs. Hignet, unmoved by this rhapsody. Oh, I came over to play golf in a tournament, you know. Surely at your age, said Mrs. Hignet disapprovingly, you could be better occupied. Do you spend your whole time playing golf? Oh, no, I hunt a bit and shoot a bit, and I swim a good lot. I still play football occasionally. I wonder your father does not insist on your doing some useful work. He is beginning to harp on the subject, rather. I suppose I shall take a stab at it sooner or later. Father says I ought to get married, too. He is perfectly right. I suppose I would used to still be getting hitched up one of these days, said Sam. Mrs. Hignet started violently. Why do you say that? Eh? What makes you say that? Oh, well, he's a romantic sort of fellow, writes poetry and all that. There's no likelihood at all of Eustace marrying. He is of a shy and retiring temperament, and sees few women. He is almost a recluse. Sam was aware of this, and had frequently regretted it. He'd always been fond of his cousin. And in that half-amuse and rather patronizing way in which men of use and sinews are fond of the weaker brethren who run more to pallor and intellect, he had always felt that if Eustace had not had to retire to Windel's to spend his life with a woman, whom from his earliest years he had always considered the emperors of the washouts, much might have been made of him. Both at school and at Oxford, Eustace had been, if not a sport, at least a decidedly cheery old being. Sam remembered Eustace at school, breaking glass globes with a slipper in a positively rollicking manner. He remembered him at Oxford, playing up to him manfully at the piano on the occasion when he had done that imitation of Frank Timney, which had been such a hit at the Trinity Smoker. Yes, Eustace had had the makings of a pretty sound egg, and it was too bad that he had allowed his mother to coop him up down in the country miles away from anywhere. Eustace is returning to England on Sunday, said Mrs. Hignet. She spoke a little wistfully. She had not been parted from her son since he had come down from Oxford, and she would have liked to keep him with her till the end of her lecturing tour. That, however, was out of the question. It was impurity of that, while she was away, he should be at Windel's. Nothing would have induced her to leave the place at the mercy of servants, who might trample over the flowerbeds, scratch the polished floors, and forget to cover up the canary at night. He sails on the Atlantic. That splendid, said Sam. I'm sailing on the Atlantic myself. I'll go down to the office and see if we can't have a stateroom together. But where's he going to live when he gets to England? Where's he going to live? By at Windel's, of course. Where else? I thought you were letting Windel's for the summer. Mrs. Hignet stared. Letting Windel's? She spoke, as one might address a lunatic. What put that extraordinary idea into your head? I thought Father said something about your letting the place to some American. Nothing of the kind. It seemed to Sam that his aunt spoke somewhat vehemently, even snappishly, in correcting what was a perfectly natural mistake. He could not know that the subject of letting Windel's for the summer was one which had long since begun to infuriate Mrs. Hignet. People had certainly asked her to let Windel's. In fact, people had pestered her. There was a rich, fat man, an American named Bennett, whom she had met just before sailing at her brother's house in London. Invited down to Windel's for the day, Mr. Bennett had fallen in love with the place that begged her to name her own price. Not content with this, he had pursued her with his pleadings by means of the wireless telegraph while she was on the ocean, and had not given up the struggle even when she reached New York. He had egged on a friend of his, a Mr. Mortimer, to continue the persecution in that city. And, this very morning, among the letters on Mrs. Hignet's table, a buff envelope of a cable from Mr. Bennett had peeped out, nearly spoiling her breakfast. To wonder then, that Sam's allusion to the affair had caused the authorists of the spreading light momentarily to lose her customary calm. Nothing will induce me ever to let Windel's, she said with finality, and rose significantly. Sam, perceiving that his audience was at an end, and glad of it, also got up. Well, I'll be going along down and seeing about that stateroom, he said. Certainly. I'm a little busy just now, writing notes for my next lecture. Of course, yes, mustn't interrupt you. I suppose you're having a great time gassing away. I mean, well, goodbye. Goodbye. Mrs. Hignet, frowning, for the interview had ruffled her and disturbed that equitable frame of mind which is so vital to the preparation of lectures on theosophy, sat down at the writing table, and began to go through the notes which she had made overnight. She had hardly succeeded in concentrating herself when the door opened to admit the daughter of Erin once more. Ma'am, there was a gentleman. This is intolerable, cried Mrs. Hignet. Did you tell him I was busy? I did not. I loosed him into the dining-room. Is he a reporter from one of the newspapers? He is not. He has spats on a tall-shaped hat. His name is Bream Mortimer. Bream Mortimer? Yes, ma'am. He handed me a bit of a keyard, but I dropped it, being slippy from the dishes. Mrs. Hignet strode to the door with a forbidding expression. This, as she had justly remarked, was intolerable. She remembered Bream Mortimer. He was the son of the Mr. Mortimer, who was the friend of the Mr. Bennett, who wanted windles. This visit could only have to do with the subject of windles. And she went into the dining-room in a state of cold fury, determined to squash the Mortimer family once and for all. Bream Mortimer was tall and thin. He had small, bright eyes and a sharply curving nose. He looked much more like a parrot than most parrots do. It gave strangers a momentary shock of surprise when they saw Bream Mortimer in restaurants eating roast beef. They had the feeling he would have preferred sunflower seeds. Good morning, Mrs. Hignet. Please sit down. Bream Mortimer sat down. He looked as though he would rather have hopped onto a perch, but he sat down. He glanced about the room with gleaming, excited eyes. Mrs. Hignet, I must have a word with you alone. You are having a word with me alone? I hardly know how to begin. Then let me help you. It's quite impossible. I will never consent. Bream Mortimer started. Then you have heard. I've heard about nothing else since I left Mr. Bennett in London. Mr. Bennett talked about nothing else. Your father talked about nothing else, and now, cried Mrs. Hignet fiercely, you come and try to reopen the subject. Once and for all, nothing will alter my decision. No money will induce me to let my house. But I didn't come about that. You didn't come about windows? Good Lord, no. Then will you kindly tell me why you have come? Bream Mortimer looked embarrassed. He wriggled a little, and moved his arms, as if he were trying to flap them. You know, he said, I'm not a man who butts into other people's affairs. He stopped. No, said Mrs. Hignet. Bream began again. I'm not a man who gossips with servants. No. I'm not a man who— Mrs. Hignet was never a very patient woman. Let us take all your negative qualities for granted, she said curtly. I have no doubt that there are many things which you do not do. Let us confine ourselves to issues of definite importance. What is it, if you have no objection to concentrating your attention on that for a moment, that you wish to see me about? This marriage? What marriage? Your son's marriage? My son is not married. Nobody's going to be, at eleven o'clock this morning, at the little church round the corner. Mrs. Hignet stared. Are you mad? Well, I'm not any too well pleased. I'm bound to say, admitted Mr. Mortimer. You see, darn it all, I'm in love with the girl myself. Who is this girl? Have been for years one of those silent patient fellows who hang around and look a lot, but never tell their love. Who is this girl who has entrapped my son? I have always been one of those men who, Mr. Mortimer, with your permission, we will take your positive qualities also for granted. In fact, we will not discuss you at all. You come to me with this absurd story, not absurd, on his fact. I had it from my valet, who had it from her maid. And though I'm not a man to gossip with servants, I'm bound to say, will you please tell me who is the girl my misguided son wishes to marry? I don't know that I call him misguided, said Mr. Mortimer. As one desiring to be fair, I think he's a right smart picker. She's a corking girl, you know. We were children together, and I've loved her for years, 10 years at least. But you know how it is. Somehow one never seems to get in line for a proposal. I thought I saw an opening in the summer of 1912, but it blew over. I'm not one of these smooth dashing guys, you see, with a fair line of talk. I'm not, if you will kindly, said Mrs. Hignett impatiently, postpone this essay and psychoanalysis to some future occasion. I shall be greatly obliged. I am waiting to hear the name of the girl my son wishes to marry. Haven't I told you? said Mr. Mortimer, surprised. That's odd, I haven't. It's funny how one doesn't do the things one thinks one does. I'm the sort of man. What is her name? Bennet. Bennet? Bilhelmina Bennet, the daughter of Mr. Rufus Bennet, the red-haired girl I met at lunch one day at your father's house? That's it, you're a great guesser. I think you ought to stop the thing. I intend to. Fine. The marriage will be unsuitable in every way. Miss Bennet and my son do not vibrate on the same plane. That's right, I've noticed it myself. Their auras are not the same colour. If I've thought that once, said Mrs. Mortimer, I've thought it a hundred times. I wish I had a dollar for every time I've thought it, not the same colour. That's the whole thing in a nutshell. I am much obliged to you for coming and telling me of this. I shall take immediate steps. That's good, but what's the procedure? How are you going to form a flying wedge and buck centre? It's getting late. We'll be waiting at the church at eleven, with bells on. Said Mr. Mortimer. Eustace will not be there. You think you can fix it? Eustace will not be there, repeated Mrs. Hignet. Dream Mortimer hopped down from his chair. Well, you've taken a weight off my mind. A mind, I should imagine, scarcely constructed to bear great weights. I'll be going. Haven't had breakfast yet? Too worried to eat breakfast? Relieved now? This is where three eggs and a rasher of ham get cut off in their prime. I feel I can rely on you. You can. Then I'll say goodbye. Goodbye. I mean really goodbye. I'm sailing for England on Saturday on the Atlantic. Indeed, my son will be your fellow traveller. Dream Mortimer looked somewhat apprehensive. Oh, you won't tell him I was the one who spilled the beans. I beg your pardon? You won't wise him up that I threw a spanner into the machinery? I do not understand you. You won't tell him that I crapped his act, gave the thing away, gummed the game. I shall not mention your chivalrous intervention. Chivalrous, said Dream Mortimer doubtfully. I don't know that I call it absolutely chivalrous. Of course, all's fair in love and war. Well, I'm glad you're going to keep my share in the business under your hat. It might have been awkward meeting him on board. You are not likely to meet Eustace on board. He is a very indifferent sailor, and spends most of his time in his cabin. That's good. Saves a lot of awkwardness. Well, goodbye. Good-bye, when you reach England, remember me to your father. He won't have forgotten you, said Dream Mortimer confidently. He did not see how it was humanly possible for anyone to forget this woman. She was like a celebrated chewing gum. The taste lingered. Mrs. Hignett was a woman of instant and decisive action. Even while her late visitor was speaking, schemes had begun to form in her mind, like bubbles rising to the surface of a rushing river. By the time the door had closed behind Dream Mortimer, she had at her disposal no fewer than seven—all good. It took her but a moment to select the best and simplest. She tiptoed softly to her son's room. Rhythmic snores greeted her listening ears. She opened the door and went noiselessly in. Chapter 2 Of Three Men and a Maid The White Starliner Atlantic Lay at her pier with steam up and gangway down, ready for her trip to Southampton. The hour of departure was near, and there was a good deal of mixed activity going on. Sailors fiddled about with ropes. Junior officers flitted to and fro. White-jacketed stewards wrestled with trunks. Probably the captain, though not visible, was also employed on some useful work of a nautical nature and not wasting his time. Men, women, boxes, rugs, dogs, flowers, and baskets of fruit were flowing on board in a steady stream. The usual drove of citizens had come to see the travellers off. There were men on the passenger list who were being seen off by fathers, by mothers, by sisters, by cousins, and by aunts. In the steerage, there was an elderly Jewish lady who was being seen off by exactly 37 of her late neighbours in Rivington Street. And two men in the second cabin were being seen off by detectives. Surely the crowning compliment a great nation can bestow. The cavernous custom shed was congested with friends and relatives. And Sam Marlowe, heading for the gangplank, was only able to make progress by employing all the muscle and energy which nature had endowed upon him. And which, during the 25 years of his life, he had developed by athletic exercise. However, after some minutes of silent endeavour, now driving his shoulder into the mid-riff of some obstructing mail, now courteously lifting some stout female off his feet, he had succeeded in struggling to within a few yards of his goal, when suddenly a sharp pain shot through his right arm and he spun round with a cry. It seemed to Sam that he'd been bitten, and this puzzled him. Four New York crowds, though they may shove and jostle, rarely bite. He found himself face to face with an extraordinarily pretty girl. She was a red-haired girl, with the beautiful ivory skin which goes with red hair. Her eyes, though they were under the shadow of her hat, and he could not be certain, he diagnosed as green, or maybe blue, or possibly gray. Not that it mattered, for he had a catholic taste in feminine eyes, so long as they were large and bright. As were the specimens under his immediate notice, he was not the man to quibble about a point of colour. Her nose was small, and on the very tip of it there was a tiny freckle. Her mouth was nice and wide, her chin soft and round. She was just about the height which every girl ought to be. Her figure was trim, her feet tiny, and she wore one of those dresses, of which a man can say no more, than that they look pretty well all right. Nature abhors a vacuum. Samuel Marlowe was a susceptible young man, and, for many a long month, his heart had been lying empty, all swept and garnished, with welcome on the mat. This girl seemed to rush in and fill it. She was not the prettiest girl he had ever seen. She was the third prettiest. He had an orderly mind, one capable of classifying and docketing girls. But there was a subtle something about her, a sort of, how shall we put it, which he had never encountered before. He swallowed convulsively. His well-developed chest swelled beneath its covering of blue flannel and invisible stripe. Last, he told himself, he was in love. Really in love, and at first sight, too, which made it all the more impressive. He doubted whether, in the whole course of history, anything like this had ever happened before to anybody. Oh, to clasp this girl to him, and— But she had bitten him in the arm. That was hardly the right spirit. That, he felt, constituted an obstacle. Oh, I'm so sorry, she cried. Well, of course, if she regretted her rash act. After all, an impulsive girl might bite a man in the arm in the excitement of the moment, and still have a sweet womanly nature. The crowd seems to make pinky-boodles so nervous. Sam might have remained mystified, but at this juncture there proceeded from a bundle of rags in the neighbourhood of the girl's lower ribs, a sharp yapping sound of such a calibre as to be painfully audible over the confused noise of mammy's, who were telling Sadie's to be sure and right of Bill's who were instructing Dicks to look up old Joe in Paris, and give him their best, and of all the fruit boys, candy boys, magazine boys, American flag boys, and telegraph boys, who were honking their wares on every side. I hope he didn't hurt you too much, you're the third person he's bitten today. She kissed the animal in a loving and congratulatory way on the tip of his black nose. Not counting bell boys, of course, she added. And then she was swept from him in the crowd, and he was left thinking of all the things he might have said. All those graceful, witty, ingratiating things, which just make a bit of difference on these occasions. He had said nothing. Not a sound, exclusive of the first sharp yowl of pain, had proceeded from him. He had just gobbled. A rotten exhibition. Perhaps he would never see this girl again. She looked the sort of girl who comes to see friends off, and doesn't sell herself. What memory of him would she retain? She would put him up with the time when she went to visit the deaf and dumb hospital. Sam reached the gang-plank, showed his ticket, and made his way through the crowd of passengers, passengers' friends, stewards, junior officers, and sailors who infested the deck. He proceeded down the main companion way, threw a rich smell of India rubber and mixed pickles, as far as the dining-room, then turned down the narrow passage leading to his stateroom. Staterooms on ocean liners are curious things. When you see them on the chart in the passenger office, with the gentlemanly clerk drawing rings around the door, they seem so vast that you get the impression that, after stowing away all your trunks, you will have room left over to do a bit of entertaining, possibly an informal dance or something. When you go on board, you find that the place is shrunk to the dimensions of an undersized cupboard, in which it would be impossible to swing a cat. Then, about the second day out, it suddenly expands again. For one reason or another, the necessity for swinging cats does not arise, and you find yourself quite comfortable. Sam, balancing himself on the narrow projecting ledge, which the chart in the passenger office had grand delicately described as a lounge, began to feel the depression which marks the second phase. He almost wished now, that he had not been so energetic in having his room changed in order to enjoy the company of his cousin Eustace. It was going to be a tight fit. Eustace's bag was already in the cabin, and it seemed to take up the entire fairway. Still, after all, Eustace was a good sort, and would be a cheerful companion, and Sam realized that if the girl with the red hair was not a passenger on the boat, he was going to have need of diverting society. A footstep sounded in the passage outside. The door opened. Hello, Eustace! said Sam. Eustace Hignet stood listlessly, sat down on his bag, and emitted a deep sigh. He was a small, fragile-looking young man with a pale intellectual face. Dark hair fell in a sweep over his forehead. He looked like a man who would write vers libre, and indeed he did. Hello, he said in a hollow voice. Sam regarded him blankly. He had not seen him for some years, but, going by his recollections of him at university, he had expected something cheeryer than this. In fact, he'd rather been relying on Eustace to be the life and soul of the party. The man, sitting on the bag before him, could hardly have filled that role at a gathering of Russian novelists. What on earth's the matter? said Sam. The matter, Eustace Hignet laughed mirthlessly. Oh, nothing! Nothing much! Nothing to signify! Only my heart's broken. He eyed, with considerable malignity, the bottle of water in the rack above his head. A harmless object provided by the White Star Company for clients who might desire to clean their teeth during the voyage. If you would care to hear the story, he said. Go ahead. It is quite short. That's good. Soon after I arrived in America, I met a girl. Talking of girls, said Marlowe with enthusiasm. I've just seen the only one in the world that really amounts to anything. It was like this. I was shoving my way through the mob on the dock, when, suddenly, shall I tell you my story, or will you tell me yours? Oh, sorry. Go ahead. Eustace Hignet scowled at the printed notice on the wall, informing occupants of the stateroom that the name of their steward was J.B. Midgley. She was an extraordinarily pretty girl. So you was mine. I give you my honest word. I never in my life saw such— Of course, if you would prefer that I postpone my narrative. Said Eustace coldly. Oh, sorry. Carry on. She was an extraordinarily pretty girl. What was her name? Wilhelmina Bennett. She was an extraordinarily pretty girl, and highly intelligent. I read her all my poems, and she appreciated them. Immensely. She enjoyed my singing. My conversation appeared to interest her. She admired my— I see you've made a hit. Now, get on with the rest of the story. Don't bustle me. Said Eustace quarrelously. Well, you know, the voyage only takes eight days. I've forgotten where I was. You were saying what the devil of a chap she thought you. What happened? I suppose when you actually came to propose, you found she was engaged to some other Johnny. Not at all. And I asked her to be my wife, and she consented. We both agreed that a quiet wedding was what we wanted. She thought her father might stop the thing if he knew, and I was dash-sure my mother would. So we decided to get married without telling anybody. By now, said Eustace, with a morose glance at the porthole, I ought to have been on my honeymoon. Everything was settled. I had a license and the parson's fee. I had been breaking in a new tie for the wedding, and then you quarreled. Nothing of the kind. I wish you would stop trying to tell me the story. I'm telling you. What happened was this. Somehow I can't make out how. My mother found out. And then, of course, it was all over. She stopped the thing. Sam was indignant. He thoroughly disliked his aunt Adeline, and his cousin's meek subservience to her revolted him. Stopped it? I suppose she said, Now Eustace, you mustn't, and you said, Very well, mother, and scratch the fixture. She didn't say a word. She never has said a word. As far as that goes, she might never have heard anything about the marriage. Then how do you mean she stopped it? She pinched my trousers. Pinched your trousers? Eustace groaned. All of them, the whole bally lot. She gets up long before I do, and she must have come into my room and cleaned it out while I was asleep. When I woke up and started to dress, I couldn't find a solitary pair of bags anywhere in the whole place. I looked everywhere. Finally I went to the sitting room where she was writing letters, and asked if she happened to see any anywhere. She said she'd sent them all out to be pressed. She said she knew I never went out in the mornings. I don't, as a rule. And they would be back at lunchtime. Fat lot of use that was. I had to be at the church at eleven. Well, I told her I had the most important engagement with a man at eleven, and she wanted to know what it was. And I tried to think of something, but it sounded pretty feeble, and she said I'd better telephone to the man, and put it off. I did it, too. I rang up the first number in the book and told some fellow I'd never seen in my life that I couldn't meet him. He was pretty peeved, judging from what he said about my being on the wrong line. My mother listening all the time, and knowing what she knew. Something told me that she knew. And she knowing that I knew she knew, I tell you it was awful. And the girl? She broke off the engagement. Apparently she waited at the church from eleven till one thirty, and then began to get impatient. She wouldn't see me when I called in the afternoon. But I got a letter from her saying that what had happened was all for the best, as she had been thinking it over, and had come to the conclusion that she had made a mistake. She said something about my not being as dynamic as she had thought I was. She said that what she wanted was something more like Lancelot or Saugalla had. And would I look on the episode as closed? Did you explain about the trousers? Yes, it seemed to make things worse. She said she could forgive a man anything except being ridiculous. I think you're well out of it, said Sam, judicially. She can't be much of a girl. And I feel that now, but it doesn't alter the fact that my life is ruined. I have become a woman-hater. It's an infernal nuisance, because practically all the poetry I've ever written rather went out of its way to boost women. And now I'll have to start all over again and approach the subject from another angle. Women. When I think how my mother behaved and how Wilhelm Miner treated me, I wonder there isn't a law against them. What mighty ills have not been done by woman. Who was it that betrayed the capital? In Washington, said Sam, puzzled. He'd heard nothing of this, but then he generally confined his reading of the papers to the sporting page. In Rome, you ass, ancient Rome. Oh, as long as that! I was quoting from Thomas Ottway's Orphan. I wish I could write like Ottway. He knew what he was talking about. Who was to betray the capital a woman? Who lost Mark Antony the world a woman? Who was the cause of a long ten years' war and laid at last old Troy in ashes? Woman. Destructive, damnable, deceitful woman. Well, of course, he may be right in a way. As regards some women, I mean, but the girl I met on the dock, don't! said Eustace Hignett. If you have anything bitter and derogatory to say about women, say it, and I will listen eagerly. But if you merely wish to gibber about the ornamental exterior of some dashed girl you have been fool enough to get attracted to, go and tell it to the captain, or to the ship's cat, or to JB Midgley. Do try to realise that I am a soul in torment. I am a ruin, a spent force, a man without a future. What does life hold for me? Love? I shall never love again. My work? I haven't any. I think I shall take to drink. Talking of that, said Sam, I suppose they opened the bar directly past the three-mile limit. How about a small one? Eustace shook his head gloomily. Do you suppose I pass my time on board ship, in gadding about and feasting? Directly the vessel begins to move. I go to bed and stay there. As a matter of fact, I think it would be wisest to go to bed now. Don't let me keep you if you want to go on deck. It looks to me, said Sam, as if I had been mistaken in thinking that you were going to be a ray of sunshine on the voyage. Ray of sunshine, said Eustace Hignett, pulling a pair of mauve pyjamas out of the kitbag. I am going to be a volcano. Sam left the stateroom and headed for the companion. He wanted to get on deck and ascertain if that girl was still on board. And now the ship would be separating from the goats. The passengers would be on deck and their friends returning to the shore. A slight tremor on the boards on which he trod, told him that this separation must have already taken place. The ship was moving. He ran lightly up the companion. Was she on board or not? The next few minutes would decide. He reached the top of the stairs and passed out onto the crowded deck. And as he did so, a scream followed by confused shouting came from the rail nearest the shore. He perceived that the rail was black with people hanging over it. They were all looking into the water. Samuel Marlowe was not one of those who pass so luffly by when there is excitement toward. If a horse fell down in the street, he was always among those present. And he was never too busy to stop and stare at a blank window on which were inscribed the words, watch this space. In short, he was one of nature's rubbernecks. And to dash to the rail and shove a fat man in a tweed cap to one side was with him the work of a moment. He had thus an excellent view of what was going on, a view which he improved the next instant by climbing up and kneeling on the rail. There was a man in the water, a man whose upper section, the only one visible, was clad in a blue jersey. He wore a derby hat, and from time to time as he battled with the waves, he would put up a hand and adjust this more firmly on his head. A dressy swimmer. Scarcely had he taken in this spectacle when Marlowe became aware of the girl he had met on the dock. She was standing a few feet away, leaning over the rail with wide eyes and parted lips. Like everybody else, she was staring into the water. As Sam looked at her, the thought crossed his mind that here was a wonderful chance of making the most tremendous impression on this girl. What would she not think of a man who reckless of his own safety dived in and went boldly to the rescue? And there were men, no doubt, who would be chumps enough to do it, he thought, as he prepared to shift back to a position of greater safety. At this moment the fat man in a tweed cap incensed at having been jostled out of the front row, made his charge. He had been crouching the better to spring. Now he sprang. His full weight took Sam squarely in the spine. There was an instant in which that young man hung as it were between sea and sky. Then he shot down over the rail to join the man in the blue jersey, who had just discovered that his hat was not on straight and had paused to adjust it once more with a few skillful touches of the finger. In the brief interval of time, which Marlowe had spent in the stateroom chatting with Eustace about the latter's bruised soul, some rather curious things had been happening above. Not extraordinary, perhaps, but curious. These must now be related. A story, if it is grip the reader, should, I am aware, go always forward. It should march. It should leap from crag to crag like the shammy of the Alps. If there is one thing I hate, it's a novel which gets you interested in the hero in chapter one, and then cuts back in chapter two to tell you all about his grandfather. Nevertheless, at this point we must go back a space. We must return to the moment when, having deposited her pecanese dog in her stateroom, the girl with the red hair came out again on deck. This happened just about the time when Eustace Hignet was beginning his narrative. Now, the bustle which precedes the departure of an ocean liner was at its height. Horse voices were crying, all for the shore! The gangway was strong with friends of passengers returning to land. The crowd on the pier waved flags and handkerchiefs and shouted unintelligibly. Members of the crew stood alertly by the gang plank, ready to draw it in as soon as the last seer off had crossed it. The girl went to the rail and gazed earnestly at the shore. There was an anxious expression on her face. She had the air of one who was waiting for someone to appear. Her demeanor was that of Mariana at the moated grange. He cometh not, she seemed to be saying. She glanced at her wristwatch, then scanned the dock once more. There was a rattle as the gang plank moved in board and was deposited on the deck. The girl uttered a little cry of dismay. Then suddenly her face brightened and she began to wave her arm to attract the attention of an elderly man with a red face made redder by exertion, who had just forced his way to the edge of the dock and was peering up at the passenger-lined rail. The boat had now begun to move slowly out of its slip, backing into the river. Ropes had been cast off and an ever-widening strip of water appeared between the vessel and the shore. It was now that the man on the dock sighted the girl. She gesticulated at him. He gesticulated at her. She appeared helpless and baffled, but he showed himself a person of resource and of the stuff of which great generals are made. Foch is just like that, a bird at changing preconceived plans to suit the exigencies of the moment. The man on the dock took from his pocket a pleasantly rotund wad of currency bills. He produced a handkerchief, swiftly tied up the bills in it and backed to give himself room, and then with all the strength of his arm he hurled the bills in the direction of the deck. The action was greeted by cheers from a warm-hearted populace. Your New York crowd loves a liberal provider. One says that the man hurled the bills in the direction of the deck, and that was exactly what he did. But the years had robbed his pitching arm of the limber strength, which Forty Summersback had made him the terror of opposing boys' baseball teams. He still retained a fair control, but he lacked steam. The handkerchief with its precious contents shot in a graceful arc towards the deck, fell short by a good six feet and dropped into the water, where it unfolded like a lily, sending twenty dollar bills, ten dollar bills, five dollar bills, and an assortment of ones floating over the wavelets. The cheers of the citizenry changed to cries of horror. The girl uttered a plaintive shriek. The boat moved on. It was at this moment that Mr. Oscar Svensson, one of the thriftiest souls who ever came out of Sweden, perceived that the chance of a lifetime had arrived for adding substantially to his little savings. By profession, he was one of those men who eke out a precarious livelihood by rowing dreamily about the waterfront in skiffs. He was doing so now. And as he sat meditatively in his skiff, having done his best to give the liner a good send-off by paddling round her encircles, the pleading face of a twenty dollar bill peered up at him. Mr. Svensson was not the man to resist the appeal. He uttered a sharp bark of ecstasy. Pressed his derby hat firmly upon his brow and dived in. A moment later, he had risen to the surface and was gathering up money with both hands. He was still busy with this congenial task when a tremendous splash at his side sent him under again and rising for a second time. He observed with not a little chagrin that he had been joined by a young man in a blue flannel suit with an invisible stripe. Svensson exclaimed Mr. Svensson, or whatever it is that natives of Sweden exclaim in moments of justifiable annoyance. He resented the advent of this newcomer. He had been getting along fine and had had the situation well in hand. To him, Sam Marlowe represented competition. And Mr. Svensson desired no competitors in his treasure-seeking enterprise. He travels, thought Mr. Svensson fastest, who travels alone. Sam Marlowe had a touch of the philosopher in him. He had the ability to adapt himself to circumstances. It had been no part of his plans to come whizzing down off the rail into this singularly soup-like water which tasted in equal parts of oil and dead rats. But now that he was here, he was prepared to make the best of the situation. Swimming, it happened, was one of the things he did best. And somewhere among his belongings at home was a tarnished pewter cup, which he had won at school in the saving life competition. He knew exactly what to do. You get behind the victim and grab him firmly under his arms, and then you start swimming on your back. A moment later, the astonished Mr. Svensson, who, being practically amphibious, had not anticipated that anyone would have the cool impertinence to try and save him from drowning, found himself seized from behind and towed vigorously away from a $10 bill which he had almost succeeded in grasping. The spiritual agony caused by this assault rendered him mercifully dumb. Though, even had he contrived to utter the rich Swedish oaths which occurred to him, his remarks could scarcely have been heard, for the crowd on the dock was cheering as one man. They had often paid good money to see far less gripping sights in the movies. They roared applause. The liner, meanwhile, continued to move stodgily out into mid-river. The only drawback to these life-saving competitions at school, considered from the standpoint of fitting the competitors for the problems of afterlife, is that the object saved on such occasions is a leather dummy. And of all the things in this world, a leather dummy is perhaps the most placid and phlegmatic. It differs in many respects from an emotional Swedish gentleman, six foot high and constructed throughout a steel and India rubber, who is being lugged away from cash, which he had been regarding in the light of a legacy. Indeed, it would not be hard to find a respect in which it does not differ. So far from lying inert in Sam's arms and allowing himself to be saved in a quiet and orderly manner, Mr. Svensson betrayed all the symptoms of one who feels that he has fallen among murderers. Mr. Svensson, much as he disliked competition, was ready to put up with it, provided it was fair competition. This pulling your rival away from the loot so that you could grab it yourself, thus shockingly had the man misinterpreted Sam's motives, was another thing altogether, and his stout soul would have none of it. He began immediately to struggle with all the violence at his disposal. His large, hairy hands came out of the water and swung hopefully in the direction where he assumed his assailants face to be. Sam was not unprepared for this display. His researches in the art of life-saving had taught him that your drowning man frequently struggled against his best interests, in which case, cruel to be kind, one simply stunned the blighter. He decided to stun Mr. Svensson, though, if he had known the gentleman more intimately and had been aware that he had the reputation of possessing the thickest head on the waterfront, he would have realized the magnitude of the task. Friends of Mr. Svensson in convivial moments had frequently endeavored to stun him with bottles, boots, and bits of lead piping, and had gone away depressed by failure. Sam, ignorant of this, attempted to do the job with clenched fist, which he brought down as smartly as possible on the crown of the other's derby hat. It was the worst thing he could have done. Mr. Svensson thought highly of his hat, and this brutal attack upon it confirmed his gloomiest apprehensions. Now thoroughly convinced that the only thing to do was to sell his life dearly, he wrenched himself round, seized his assailant by the neck, twined his arms about his middle, and accompanied him below the surface. By the time he had swallowed his first pint and was beginning his second, Sam was reluctantly compelled to come to the conclusion that this was the end. The thought irritated him unspeakably. This, he felt, was just the silly, contrary way things always happened. Why should it be he who was perishing like this? Why not Eustace Hignet? Now there was a fellow whom this sort of thing would just have suited. Broken-hearted Eustace Hignet would have looked on all this as a merciful release. He paused in his reflections to try to disentangle the more prominent of Mr. Svensson's limbs from about him. By this time he was sure that he had never met anyone. He disliked so intensely as Mr. Svensson, not even his aunt Adeline. The man was a human octopus. Sam could count seven distinct legs twirling around him, and at least as many arms. It seemed to him that he was being done to death in his prime by a solid platoon of Swedes. He put his whole soul into one last effort. Something seemed to give. He was free. Pausing only to kick Mr. Svensson in the face, Sam shot to the surface. Something hard and sharp prodded him in the head. Then something caught the collar of his coat, and finally, spouting like a whale, he found himself dragged upwards and over the side of a boat. The time which Sam had spent with Mr. Svensson below the surface had been brief. But it had been long enough to enable the whole floating population of the North River to converge on the scene in scours, skiffs, launches, tugs, and other vessels. The fact that the water in that vicinity was crested with currency had not escaped the notice of these navigators, and they had gone to it as one man. First in the race came the tug Ruben S. Watson, the skipper of which, following a famous president, had taken his little daughter to bear him company. It was to this fact that Marlowe really out his rescue. Women have often a vein of sentiment in them where men can see only the hard business side of a situation. And it was the skipper's daughter who insisted that the family boat hook, then in use as a harpoon for spearing dollar bills, should be devoted to the less profitable, but humaner end of extricating the young man from a watery grave. The skipper had grumbled a bit at first, but had given way. He always spoiled the girl, with the result that Sam found himself sitting on the deck of the tug, engaged in the complicated process of restoring his faculties to the normal. In the sort of dream he perceived Mr. Svensson rise to the surface some feet away, adjust his derby hat, and after one long look of dislike in his direction, swim off rapidly to intercept a five which was floating under the stern of a nearby skiff. Sam sat on the deck and panted. He played on the boards like a public fountain. At the back of his mind there was a flickering thought that he wanted to do something, a vague feeling that he had some sort of an appointment which he must keep, but he was unable to think what it was. Meanwhile he conducted tentative experiments with his breath. It was so long since he had last breathed that he had lost the knack of it. Well, ain't you wet? said a voice. The skipper's daughter was standing beside him, looking down, commiseratingly. Of the rest of the family all he could see was the broad blue seats of their trousers as they leaned hopefully over the side in the quest for wealth. Yes, sir, you sure are wet. Gee, I never seen anyone so wet. I seen wet, guys, but I never seen anyone so wet as you. Yes, sir, you're certainly wet. I am wet, admitted Sam. Yes, sir, you're wet. What's the word, all right? Good and wet, that's what you are. It's the water, said Sam. His brain was still clouded. He wished he could remember what that appointment was. That's what's made me wet. It sure made you wet, all right? Agreed the girl. She looked at him, interestingly. Whatcha do it for? she asked. Do it for? Yes, whatcha do it for? How come? Whatcha do a brody off in that ship? I didn't see it myself, but Pa says you come walloping down off in the deck like a sack of potatoes. Sam uttered a sharp cry he had remembered. Where is she? Where's who? The liner. She's off down the river, I guess. She was swinging round the last I seen of her. She's not gone. Sure she's gone. Whatcha expect her to do? She's got to get over to the other side, ain't she? Certainly she's gone. She looked at him, interested. Do you want to be on board her? Course I do. Then for the love of Pete, whatcha doing walloping off in her like a sack of potatoes? I slipped, I was pushed or something. Sam sprang to his feet and looked wildly about him. I must get back. Isn't there any way of getting back? Well, you could catch up with her at the quarantine out in the bay. She'll stop to let the pilot off. Can you take me to quarantine? The girl glanced doubtfully at the seat of the nearest pair of trousers. Well, we could, she said, but Pa's kind of set in his ways, and right now he's fishing for dollar bills with a fish hook. He's apt to sort of get mad if he's interrupted. I'll give him fifty dollars if he'll put me on board. Got it on you? Inquired the nymph coyly. She had a share of sentiment, but she was her father's daughter, and inherited from him the business sense. Here it is. He pulled out his pocketbook. The book was dripping, but the contents were only fairly moist. Pa! said the girl. The trouser seat remained where it was, deaf to its child's cry. Pa! Come here! Wantcha! The trousers did not even quiver. But this girl was a girl of decision. There was some nautical implement, resting in a rack convenient to her hand. It was long, solid, and constructed in one of the harder forms of wood. Deftly extricating this from its place, she smote her inoffensive parent on the only visible portion of him. He turned sharply, exhibiting a red, bearded face. Pa! This gentleman wants to be took aboard the boat at quarantine. He'll give you fifty berries. The wrath died out of the skipper's face, like the slow turning down the road. The fishing had been poor, and so far he had only managed to secure a single two-dollar bill. In a crisis like the one which had so suddenly arisen, you cannot do yourself justice with a boat hook. Fifty berries. Fifty seeds, the girl assured him. Are you on? Queen, said the skipper, simply. You said a mouthful. Minutes later, Sam was climbing up the side of the liner as it lay towering over the tug like a mountain. His clothes hung about him clamourly. He squelched as he walked. A kindly-looking old gentleman, who was smoking a cigar by the rail, regarded him with open eyes. My dear sir, you're very wet, he said. Sam passed him with a cold face, and hurried through the door leading to the companion way. Mummy, why is that man wet? cried the clear voice of a little child. Sam whizzed by, leaping down the stairs. Good Lord, sir, you're very wet, said the steward in the doorway of the staining saloon. You are wet, said the stewardess in the passage. Sam raced for his stateroom, bolted in and sank on the lounge. In the lower berth, Eustace Hignet was lying with closed eyes. He opened them languidly, then stared. Hello, he said. I say, you're wet. Sam removed his clean garments and hurried into a new suit. He was in no mood for conversation, and Eustace Hignet's frank curiosity jarred upon him. Happily at this point, a sudden shivering of the floor and a creaking of woodwork proclaimed the fact that the vessel was under way again, and his cousin, turning pea-green, rolled over on his side with a hollow moan. Sam finished buttoning his waistcoat and went out. He was passing the inquiry bureau on the sea-deck, striding along with bent head and scowling brow, when a sudden exclamation caused him to look up, and the scowl was wiped from his brow as with a sponge, for there stood the girl he had met on the dock. With her was a superfluous young man who looked like a parrot. Oh, how are you? asked the girl breathlessly. Splendid thanks, said Sam. Didn't you get very wet? I did get a little damp. I thought you would, said the young man who looked like a parrot. Directly I saw you go over the side. I said to myself, that fellow's going to get wet. There was a pause. Oh, said the girl. May I, Mr. Marlowe. Mr. Marlowe, Mr. Bream Mortimer. Sam smirked at the young man. The young man smirked at Sam. Nearly got left behind, said Bream Mortimer. Yes, nearly. No joke, getting left behind? No. Have to take the next boat. Lose a lot of time, said Mr. Mortimer, driving home his point. The girl had listened to these intellectual exchanges with impatience. She now spoke again. Oh, Bream! Hello? Do be a dear, and run down to the saloon, and see if it's all right about our places for lunch. It's all right, the table steward said so. Yes, but God makes certain. All right. He hopped away, and the girl turned to Sam with shining eyes. Oh, Mr. Marlowe, you oughtn't to have done it. Really, you oughtn't. You might have been drowned. But I never saw anything so wonderful. It was like the stories of knights who used to jump into lion's den after gloves. Yes? Said Sam a little vaguely. The resemblance had not struck him. It seemed a silly hobby, and rough on the lions, too. It was the sort of thing so lunt a lot, or so gullahad would have done. But you shouldn't have bothered. Really, it's all right now. Oh, it's all right now. Yes, I'd quite forgotten that Mr. Mortimer was to be on board. He has given me all the money I shall need. You see, it was this way. I had to sail on this boat in rather a hurry. Father's head clerk was to have gone to the bank, and got some money, and met me on board, and given it to me, but the silly old man was late. And when he got to the dock, they just pulled in the gang-plank. So he tried to throw the money to me in a handkerchief, and it fell into the water. But you shouldn't have dived in after it. Oh, well, said Sam, straightening his tie, with a quiet, brave smile. He had never expected to feel gratitude to that obese bounder who'd shoved him off the rail. But now he would have liked to seek him out, and offer him his bankroll. You really are the bravest man I ever met! Oh, no! How modest you are! But I suppose all brave men are modest. I was only too delighted at what looked like a chance of doing you a service. It was the extraordinary quickness of it that was so wonderful. I do admire presence of mind. You didn't hesitate for a second. You just shot over the side, as they propelled by some irresistible force. There was nothing, nothing, really. One just happens to have a knack of keeping one's head, and acting quickly on the spur of the moment. Some people have it, some haven't. And just think, as Bream was saying, it is all right. Said Mr. Mortimer, reappearing suddenly, I saw a couple of stewards, and they both said it was all right. So it's all right. Splendid, said the girl, Oh, Bream, hello. Do be an angel, and run along to my stateroom, and see if Pinky Boodles is quite comfortable. Bound to be. Yes, but do go. He may be feeling lonely. Cheer up to him a little. Cheer up? Yes, to cheer him up. Oh, all right. Run along. Mr. Mortimer ran along. He had the air, he had the air, the one who feels that he only needs a peak cap and a uniform two sizes too small, for him to be a properly equipped messenger boy. And as Bream was saying, resumed the girl, you might have been left behind. That, said Stam, edging a step closer, was the thought that tortured me, the thought that a friendship so delightfully begun. But it hadn't begun. We have never spoken to each other before now. Have you forgotten, on the dock? Sudden enlightenment came to her eyes. Oh, you're the man poor Pinky Boodles bit. The lucky man, her face clouded. Poor Pinky is feeling the motion of the boat a little. It's his first voyage. I shall always remember that it was Pinky who first brought us together. Would you care for a stroll on the deck? And not just now, thanks. I must be getting back to my room to finish unpacking, after lunch, perhaps. I will be there. By the way, you know my name, but— Oh, mine, she smiled brightly. It's funny that a person's name is the last thing one thinks of asking. Mine is Bennet. Bennet. Will her mine, her Bennet? My friends. She said softly as she turned away. Call me Billy. End of Chapter 2. Recording by Tim Bulkley of bigbible.org Chapter 3 of Three Men and the Made This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tim Bulkley of bigbible.org Three Men and the Made by P. G. Woodhouse. Chapter 3 For some moments, Sam remained where he was, staring after the girl as she flitted down the passage. He felt dizzy. Mental acrobatics always have an unsettling effect, and a young man may be excused for feeling a little dizzy, when he is called upon suddenly and without any warning to readjust all his preconceived views on any subject. Listening to Eustace Hignett's story of his benighted romance, Sam had formed an unflattering opinion of this Will Hermione Bennet, who had broken off her engagement simply because on the day of the marriage, his cousin had been short of the necessary wedding garment. He had, indeed, thought, a little smugly, how different his goddess of the red hair was from the object of Eustace Hignett's affections. And now, they had proved to be one and the same. It was disturbing. It was like suddenly finding the vampire of a five real feature film turned into the heroine. Some men, on making the discovery of this girl's identity, might have felt that Providence had intervened to save them from a disastrous entanglement. This point of view never occurred to Samuel Marlowe. The way he looked at it was that he had been all wrong about Will Hermione Bennet. Eustace, he felt, had been to blame throughout. If this girl had maltreated Eustace's finer feelings, then her reason for doing so must have been excellent and praiseworthy. After all, poor old Eustace, quite a good fellow, no doubt in many ways, but coming down to brass tax, what was there about Eustace that gave him any license to monopolise the affections of a wonderful girl? Where in a word did Eustace Hignett get off? He made a tremendous grievance of the fact that she had broken off the engagement. But what right did he to go about the place, expecting her to be engaged to him? Eustace Hignett, no doubt, looked upon the poor girl as utterly heartless. Marlowe regarded her behaviour as thoroughly sensible. She had made a mistake. And, realising this at the eleventh hour, she had the force of character to correct it. He was sorry for poor old Eustace, but he really could not permit the suggestion that Will Hermione Bennet, her friends called her Billy, had not behaved in a perfectly splendid way throughout. It was women like Will Hermione Bennet, Billy to her intimates, who made the world worth living in. Her friends called her Billy. He did not blame them. It was a delightful name, and suited her to perfection. He practised it a few times. Billy. Billy. Billy. It certainly ran pleasantly off the tongue. Billy Bennet, very musical. Billy Marlowe, still better. We noticed among those present the charming and popular Mrs. Billy Marlowe. A consuming desire came over him to talk about the girl to someone. Obviously, indicated as the party of the second part, was Eustace Hignet. If Eustace was still capable of speech, and, after all, the boat was hardly rolling at all. He would enjoy a further chat about his ruined life. Besides, he had another reason for seeking Eustace's society. As a man who had been actually engaged to marry this supreme girl, Eustace Hignet had an attraction for Sam akin to that of some great public monument. He had become a sort of shrine. He had taken on a glamour. Sam entered the stateroom almost reverentially, with something of the emotions of a boy going to his first dime museum. The exhibit was lying on his back, staring at the roof of the berth. By lying absolutely still, and forcing himself to think of purely inland scenes and objects, he had contrived to reduce the green in his complexion to a mere tinge. But it would be poltering with the truth to say that he felt debonair. He received Sam with a one austerity. Sit down, he said. Don't stand there swaying like that. I can't bear it. Why, we aren't out of the harbour yet. Surely you aren't going to be seasick already. I can issue no positive guarantee. Perhaps if I can keep my mind off it. I've had good results for the last ten minutes, thinking steadily of the Sahara. There, said Eustace Hignet, with enthusiasm, is the place for you. That is something like a spot, miles and miles of sand and not a drop of water anywhere. Sam sat down on the lounge. You're quite right. The great thing is to concentrate your mind on other topics. Why not, for instance, tell me something more about your unfortunate affair with that girl? Really, Bennett, I think you said her name was. Wilhelmina, Bennett. Where on earth do you get the idea her name was Billy? Well, I had a notion that girls called Wilhelmina were sometimes Billy to their friends. I never called her anything but Wilhelmina. But I really cannot talk about it. The recollection tortures me. That's just what you want. It's the counter irritation principle. Persevere and you'll soon forget that your onboard ship are tall. There's something in that that made Eustace reflectively. It's very good of you to be so sympathetic and interested. My dear fellow, anything that I can do, where did you meet her first, for instance? At a dinner, Eustace Hignet broke off abruptly. He had a good memory, and he had just recollected the fish. They had served at that dinner, a flabby, exhausted looking fish, half sunk beneath the surface of a thick white sauce. And what struck you most forcibly about her at first, her lovely hair, I suppose? How did you know she had lovely hair? My dear chap, I naturally assumed that any girl with whom you fell in love would have nice hair. Well, you're perfectly right as it happens. Her hair was remarkably beautiful. It was red. Like autumn leaves with the sun on them, said Marlowe's ecstatically. What an extraordinary thing. That's an exact description. Her eyes were a deep blue, or rather green, blue, green. There is a shade of green that looks blue. What the devil do you know about the colour of her eyes? Demanded Eustace heatedly. Am I telling you about her, or are you telling me? My dear old man, don't get excited. Don't you see I'm trying to construct this girl in my imagination, to visualise her. I don't pretend to doubt your special knowledge, but after all, green eyes generally do go with red hair, and there are all shades of green. There is the bright green of meadow grass, the dull green of the uncut emerald, the faint yellowish green of your face at the present moment. Don't talk about the colour of my face. Now you've gone and reminded me, just when I was beginning to forget. Awfully sorry, stupid of me. Get your mind off it again, quick. What were you saying? Oh yes, this girl. I always think it helps to form a mental picture of people if one knows something about their tastes. What sort of things they are interested in, their favourite topics of conversation, and so on? This miss Bennet now. What did she like talking about? Oh, all sorts of things. Yes, but what? Well, for one thing, she was very fond of poetry. It was that which first drew us together. Poetry, Sam's heart sank a little. He had read a certain amount of poetry at school, and once he had won a prize of three shillings and sixpence, for the last line of a limerick and a competition in a weekly paper. But he was self-critic enough to know that poetry was not his long suit. So, there was a library on board ship, and no doubt it would be possible to borrow the works of some standard poet, and bone them up from time to time. Any special poet? Well, she seemed to like my stuff. You never read my solid sequence on Spring, did you? No, what other poets did she like besides you? Tennyson, principally, said, used as Hignet with a reminiscent quiver in his voice, the hours we spent together reading the Iddles of the King. The Witch of what? Inquired Sam, taking a pencil from his pocket, and shooting out a cuff. The Iddles of the King. My good man, I know you have a soul which will be considered inadequate by a common earthworm, but surely you have heard of Tennyson's Iddles of the King. Oh, those? Why, my dear old chap, Tennyson's Iddles of the King. Well, I should say, have I heard of Tennyson's Iddles of the King? Well, really, I suppose you happen to copy with you on board by any chance? There is a copy in my kit bag, the very one we used to read together. Take it, and keep it, or throw it overboard. I don't want to see it again. Sam, prospected among the shirts, collars, and trousers in the bag, and presently came upon a Morocco-bound volume. He laid it beside him on the lounge. Little by little, bit by bit, he said, I am beginning to form a sort of picture of this girl. This, what was her name again? Bennett. This, Miss Bennett. You have a wonderful knack of description. You make her seem so real and vivid. Tell me some more about her. She wasn't keen on golf by any chance, I suppose? I believe she did play. The subject came up once, and she seemed rather enthusiastic. Why? Well, I'd much sooner talk to a girl about golf and poetry. You are hardly likely to be in a position to talk to Wilhelmina Bennett about either, I should imagine. No, there's that, of course. I was thinking of girls in general. Some girls bar golf, but then it's rather difficult to know how to start conversation. But tell me, were there any topics which got on Miss Bennett's nerves? If you know what I mean, it seems to me that at one time or another you may have said something that offended her. I mean, it seems curious that she should have broken off the engagement if you had never disagreed or quarreled about anything. Well, of course, there was always the matter of that dog of hers. She had a dog, you know. Snappy, brute of a pecanese. If there was ever any shadow of disagreement between us, it had to do with that dog. I made rather a point of it that I would not have it about the home after we were married. I see, said Sam. He shot his cuff once more and wrote on it, dog conciliate. Yes, of course, that must have wounded her. Not half so much as he wounded me. He pinned me by the ankle the day before we, Wilhelmina and I, I mean, were to have been married. It's some satisfaction to me in my broken state to remember that I got home on the little beast with considerable juiciness and lifted him clean over the Chesterfield. Sam shook his head, reprovingly. You shouldn't have done that, he said. He extended his cuff and added the words vitally important to what he had just written. It was probably that which decided her. Well, I hate dogs, said Eustace Hignet querilously. I remember Wilhelmina once getting quite annoyed with me because I refused to step in and separate a couple of the brute's absolute strangers to me who were fighting in the street. I reminded her that we were all fighters, now a ways, that life itself was in a sense a fight, but she wouldn't be reasonable about it. She said that her Gala had would have done it like a shot. I thought not. We have no evidence whatsoever that her Gala had was ever called upon to do anything half as dangerous. And anyway, he wore armor. Give me a suit of mail reaching well down over the ankles, and I will willingly intervene in a hundred dogfights. But in thin flannel trousers, no. Sam Rose, his heart was light. He had never, of course, supposed that the girl was anything but perfect, but it was nice to find his high opinion of her corroborated by one who had no reason to exhibit her in a favourable light. He understood her point of view and sympathised with it. An idealist, how could she trust herself to Eustace Hignet? How could she be content with a craven, who, instead of scouring the world in quest for deeds of daring do, had fallen down so lamentably on his first assignment? There was a specious attractiveness about poor old Eustace, which might conceivably win a girl's heart for a time. He wrote poetry, talked well, and had a nice singing voice, but as a partner for life. Well, he simply wouldn't do. That was all there was to it. He simply didn't add up right. A man, a girl like Wilhelmine Abennett, required for a husband, was somebody entirely different. Somebody felt Samuel Marlowe much more like Samuel Marlowe. Swelled almost a bursting point with these reflections, he went on deck to join the anti-luncheon promenade. He saw Billy almost at once. She had put on one of those nice, snacky sports coats, which so enhanced feminine charms, and was striding along the deck with the breeze playing with her vivid hair, like the female equivalent of a viking. Besides her, walked young Mr. Bream Mortimer. Sam had been feeling a good deal of a fellow already, but at the sight of her welcoming smile, his self-esteem almost caused him to explode. What magic there is in a girl's smile! It is the raisin, which, if dropped in the yeast of male complacency, induces fermentation. Oh, there you are, Mr. Marlowe! Oh, there you are, said Bream Mortimer, with a slightly different inflection. I thought I'd like a breath of fresh air before lunch, said Sam. Oh, Bream, said the girl, hello! Do be a darling, and take this heavy coat of mine down to my stateroom, will you? I had no idea it was so warm. I'll carry it, said Bream. Nonsense, I wouldn't dream of burdening you with it. Trot along and put on the berth. Doesn't matter about folding it up. All right, said Bream moodily. He trotted along. There are moments when a man feels that all he needs, in order to be a delivery wagon, is a horse and driver. He had better cheer up to the dog while he's there, don't you think? Suggested Sam. He felt that a resolute man, with legs as long as Bream's, might well deposit a cloak on a berth, and be back in under half the minute. Oh yes, Bream. Hello. While you're down there, just cheer up a little more to poor Pinky. He does appreciate it so. Bream disappeared. It is not always easy to interpret the emotions from a glance at a man's back, but Bream's back, looked like that of a man to whom the thought has occurred, that, given a couple of fiddles and a piano, he would have made a good hired orchestra. How is your dear little dog, by the way? Inquired Sam solicitously, as he fell into step by her side. Very much better now, thanks. I've made friends with a girl on board. Did you ever hear her name, Jane Hubbard? She's a rather well-known big-game hunter, and she fixed up some sort of mixture for Pinky, which had him the world of good. I don't know what was in it, except, uh, Worcester sauce. But she said she always gave it to her mules in Africa when they had the bots. Very nice of you to speak so affectionately of poor Pinky when he bit you. Animal spirits, said Sam, tolerantly. Pure animal spirits. I like to see them. But of course I love all dogs. How do you so do I? I only wish they didn't fight so much. I'm always stopping dogfights. I do admire a man who knows what to do at a dogfight. I'm afraid I'm rather helpless myself. There never seems to be anything to catch hold of. She looked down. Have you been reading? What is the book? The Volume of Tennyson. Are you fond of Tennyson? I worship him, said Sam reverently. Those, he glanced at his cuff, those iddles of the king. I do not like to think what an ocean voyage would be if I had not my Tennyson with me. We must read him together. He is my favourite poet. Oh, we will. There is something about Tennyson. Yes, isn't there? I've felt that myself so often. Some poets are wails at epics and all that sort of thing, while others call it a day when they've written something that runs to a couple of verses. But where Tennyson had the bulge, was his long game. Was just as good as his short. He was great off the tee and a marvel with his chip shots. But that sounds as though you played golf. But when I'm not reading Tennyson, you can generally find me out on the links. Do you play? I love it. How extraordinary that we should have so much in common. We really ought to be great friends. He was pausing to select the best of three replies, when the lunch bugle sounded. Oh dear, she cried, I must rush. But we shall see each other again up here afterwards. We will, said Sam. We'll sit and read Tennyson. Fine, you and I and Mortimer. Oh no, Bream is going to sit down below and look after poor Pinky. Does he, does he know he is? Not yet, said Billy. I'm going to tell him at lunch. End of Chapter 3 Recording by Tim Bulkley of BigBible.org Chapter 4 Of Three Men and a Maid This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tim Bulkley of BigBible.org Three Men and a Maid by P.G. Woodhouse, Chapter 4 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 bold statement like that. They will have a spoken title, or a cutback 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 stateroom from his tub. His manner had the offensive jauntiness of a 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 tell his glowing back, he had suddenly come to the decision that this very day he would propose to Wilhelm Miner 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 is sitting on the sidelines to see that no rough stuff was pulled. Having noted that she drooped her eyelashes and turned faintly pink, when he came to the The 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, Porpale, 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 shelly, 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 way-laid 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 Alfonso. Alfonso, 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 Alfonso like a bird. The San Marlow was a warm supporter of the Alfonso method. He was a bright young man and did not require a year to make up his mind that Wilhelmina Bennet 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 shuffleboard 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 Marlows was a byword in Bruton Street, Barclay Square. And something seemed to whisper that she loved him. At any rate, she wanted somebody like Sir Gala had. And without wishing to hurl bouquets at himself, he could not see where she could possibly get anyone like her, Sir Gala had, and himself. So, wind and weather permitting, Samuel Marlowe intended to propose to Wilhelmina Bennet 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 bedcoats in the lower berth stirred restlessly. Oh, God! said Eustace Hignet, thrusting out a tousel head. Sam regarded his cousin with commiseration. Horried 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 Hignet cheerlessly, 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 Hignet shuddered. Do you think I am an ostrich? Yied Sam sourly. You seem devilish-pleased with yourself this morning. 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 am in love. In love, Eustace Hignet 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 Hignet 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're intending to propose to this girl. Probably this morning. 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 thought it all out. And take the matter of children. How would you like to become a father? An emir glanced 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 ask questions all the time. And the 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's no need to be indelicate, said Sam stiffly. A man must take these chances. Give her the miss in bulk, pleaded Hignet. 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. It was, as he had said, a glorious morning. The sample which she 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 Billy Bennett, trim and gleaming in a pale green sweater, and a white skirt, had the effect of causing Marlowe to alter the program 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 a ship if the weather is fine. Yes, doesn't it? Shall we walk round? said Billy. 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 Fifth Avenue and Forty Second Street. It so crowded, he said. Let's go on to the upper deck. All right, you can read to me. Go and fetch your tenison. 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 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 tenisons, almost anything is apt to give you your cue. He bounded lightheartedly into the stateroom, waking Eustace Hignet from an uneasy dose. Now what? said Eustace. Where's that copy of tenison 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 tenison to her on the upper deck. Tenison? Yes, on the upper deck. That's the spot. This is the end, said Eustace Hignet, 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 Billy. 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 by 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 past time 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. But 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 soulmate. 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 it 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 the 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. Now he 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 Billy. Hello! 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 Billy. Yes, we're here, said Sam. There was another pause. Might have I joined you, said Bream? No, said Billy. No, said Sam. No, said Billy again. No, there is to say. Oh, no, not at all. But 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 didn't mind. Bream Mortimer, having bumped his head twice against the overhanging steel ropes, melted away. Who is that fellow? demanded Sam rothfully. 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've known each other all our lives, continued Billy. 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 a disgrace, you know. I was cabled for and had to sail at a few days' notice. I, oh, hello. Why, Bream, said Billy, 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 tomorrow night knobbled me to do a couple of songs. 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 the deep-sea fish, and a couple of women who both want to sing, the rosary, but he's still an act or two short. Sure, you wouldn't rally round? Quite sure. No, all right. Bream water my hovered wistfully above them. It's a great morning, isn't it? Yes, said Sam. Oh, Bream, said Billy, 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, I say, have a heart. She's a very nice girl. She's so darn 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're 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 take a pot at him with a rifle, I should like to do it myself. What were you saying when he came up? Oh, don't let's talk about me. 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 realized that his luck was in. Good old Tennyson. He was all right. He had the stuff. You could send him in to hit in a pinch every time with the comfortable knowledge that he would not strike out. 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 darkened above me before I am quite sure that there is one to love me. This was absolutely topping. It was like diving off a springboard. He could see the girls 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. 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. Billy, don't think me silly. I mean, if you had the nearest notion, dearest, I don't know what's the matter with me. Billy darling, if you're the, Billy darling, you're the only girl in the world I have been looking for you for years and years. I've found you at last my soulmate. Surely this has not come as a surprise to you. That is, I mean, you must have seen that I've been keen. There's, there's that damn 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 slayed an arm about her waist. She raised her lips to his. Suddenly she drew herself away, a cloud on her face. Darling, she said, I have 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's 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, 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 Hignet? She started violently. You know. Of course, he told me himself. Do you know him? Where did you meet him? I have known him all my life. He's my cousin. As a matter of fact, we are sharing a stateroom on board now. Eustace is on board. Oh, this is awful. What shall I do when I meet him? Oh, pass it off for the light laugh and a genial quip. Just say, there you are. Or something. You know the sort of thing? It would be terrible. Not a bit of it. Why should you feel embarrassed? He must have realized 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 swine herd. Does Mr. Hignet 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 stern realities of life are concerned, a man who can't even stop a dogfight, 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 Hignet 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, 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 old world garden grows. I've not had that advantage, replied Sam stiffly. But anyone can sing a drawing room ballad. Now, something funny. Something 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 Billy decidedly, you must certainly do something at the ship's concert tomorrow. The idea of your trying to hide your light under a bushel, I'll tell Breem to count on you. He's an excellent accompanist. He can accompany you. Yes, but, well, I don't know, said Sam doubtfully. He could not help remembering 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, when 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 Billy. I'll tell Breem when I go down to lunch. What will you sing? Well, I'm sure it would be wonderful whatever it is. You're so wonderful in every way. You remind me of one of the heroes of old. Sam's dyscomposure 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. Suddenly, as he released her, the cloud came back into her face. My angel, he asked solicitously, what's the matter? I was thinking of Father, she said. The glowing spender of the morning took on a touch of chill for Sam. Father, he said thoughtfully. Yes, I see what you mean. He will think that we have been a little precipitate. Hey, he will require a little time in order to learn to love me. You think he is sure to be pretty angry at first, agreed Billy. You see, I know that he has always hoped that I would marry Bream. Bream? Bream Mortimer? What a silly thing to hope. Well, you see, I told you that Mr. Mortimer was Father's best friend. They're both over in England now, and are trying to get a house in the country for the summer, which we can all share. I rather think the idea is to bring me and Bream closer together. How the deuce could that fellow be brought any closer to you? He's like a burr as it is. Well, that was the idea, I'm sure. Of course, I could never look at Bream now. I hate looking at him myself, said Sam, feelingly. A group of afflicted persons, bent upon playing with long sticks and bits of wood, now invaded the upper deck. Their weak-minded cries filled the air. Sam and the girl rose. Touching on your father once more, he said, as they made their way below. Is he a very formidable sort of man? He can be a dear, but he's rather quick-tempered. You must be very ingratiating. I'll practice it in front of the glass every morning for the rest of the voyage, said Sam. He went down to the stateroom in a mixed mood of elation and apprehension. He was engaged to the most wonderful girl in the world, but over the horizon loomed the menacing figure of father. He wished he could induce Billy to allow him to waive the formality of thawing father. Eustace Hignet had apparently been able to do so, but that experience had presumably engendered a certain caution in her. The Hignet fiasco had spoiled her for runaway marriages. Well, if it had to be done, if it had to be done, it must be done. And that was all there was to it.