Sam regarded his cousin with commiseration. Horrid things had been happening to Eustace during the last few days, and it was quite a pleasant surprise each morning to find that he was still alive.
“Feeling bad again, old man?”
“I was feeling all right,” replied Hignett churlishly, “until you began the farmyard imitations. What sort of a day is it?”
“Glorious! The sea….”
“Don’t talk about the sea!”
“Sorry! The sun is shining brighter than it has ever shone in the history of the race. Why don’t you get up?”
“Nothing will induce me to get up.”
“Well, go a regular buster and have an egg for breakfast.”
Eustace Hignett shuddered.
“Do you think I am an ostrich?” He eyed 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’m in love!”
“In love!” Eustace Hignett sat up and bumped his head sharply against the berth above him. “Has this been going on long?”
“Ever since the voyage started.”
“I think you might have told me,” said Eustace reproachfully. “I told you my troubles. Why did you not let me know that this awful thing had come upon you?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, old man, during these last few days I had a notion that your mind was, so to speak, occupied elsewhere.”
“Who is she?”
“Oh, a girl I met on board.”
“Don’t do it!” said Eustace Hignett solemnly. “As a friend I entreat you not to do it! Take my advice, as a man who knows women, and don’t do it!”
“Don’t do what?”
“Propose to her. I can tell by the glitter in your eye that you are intending to propose to this girl—probably this morning. Don’t do it. Women are the devil, whether they marry you or jilt you. Do you realise that women wear black evening dresses that have to be hooked up in a hurry when you are late for the theatre, and that, out of sheer wanton malignity, the hooks and eyes on those dresses are also made black? Do you realise…?”
“Oh, I’ve thought it all out.”
“And take the matter of children. How would you like to become the father—and a mere glance around you will show you that the chances are enormously in favour of such a thing happening—of a boy with spectacles and protruding front teeth who asks questions all the time? Out of six small boys whom I saw when I came on board, four wore spectacles and had teeth like rabbits. The other two were equally revolting in different styles. How would you like to become the father…?”
“There is no need to be indelicate,” said Sam stiffly. “A man must take these chances.”
“Give her the miss in baulk,” pleaded Hignett. “Stay down here for the rest of the voyage. You can easily dodge her when you get to Southampton. And, if she sends messages, say you’re ill and can’t be disturbed.”
Sam gazed at him, revolted. More than ever he began to understand how it was that a girl with ideals had broken off her engagement with this man. He finished dressing, and, after a satisfying breakfast, went on deck.
It was, as he had said, a glorious morning. The sample which he had had through the porthole had not prepared him for the magic of it. The ship swam in a vast bowl of the purest blue on an azure carpet flecked with silver. It was a morning which impelled a man to great deeds, a morning which shouted to him to chuck his chest out and be romantic. The sight of Billie Bennett, trim and gleaming in a pale green sweater and a white skirt had the effect of causing Marlowe to alter the programme which he had sketched out. Proposing to this girl was not a thing to be put off till after lunch. It was a thing to be done now and at once. The finest efforts of the finest cooks in the world could not put him in better form than he felt at present.
“Good morning, Miss Bennett.”
“Good morning, Mr. Marlowe.”
“Isn’t it a perfect day?”
“Wonderful!”
“It makes all the difference on board ship if the weather is fine.”
“Yes, doesn’t it?”
“Shall we walk round?” said Billie.
Sam glanced about him. It was the time of day when the promenade deck was always full. Passengers in cocoons of rugs lay on chairs, waiting in a dull trance till the steward should arrive with the eleven o’clock soup. Others, more energetic, strode up and down. From the point of view of a man who wished to reveal his most sacred feelings to a beautiful girl, the place was practically Fifth Avenue and Forty-second Street.
“It’s so crowded,” he said. “Let’s go on to the upper deck.”
