“All right. You can read to me. Go and fetch your Tennyson.”
Sam felt that fortune was playing into his hands. His four-days’ acquaintance with the bard had been sufficient to show him that the man was there forty ways when it came to writing about love. You could open his collected works almost anywhere and shut your eyes and dab down your finger on some red-hot passage. A proposal of marriage is a thing which it is rather difficult to bring neatly into the ordinary run of conversation. It wants leading up to. But, if you once start reading poetry, especially Tennyson’s, almost anything is apt to give you your cue. He bounded light-heartedly into the stateroom, waking Eustace Hignett from an uneasy dose.
“Now what?” said Eustace.
“Where’s that copy of Tennyson you gave me? I left it—ah, here it is. Well, see you later!”
“Wait! What are you going to do?”
“Oh, that girl I told you about,” said Sam making for the door. “She wants me to read Tennyson to her on the upper deck.”
“Tennyson?”
“Yes.”
“On the upper deck?”
“That’s the spot.”
“This is the end,” said Eustace Hignett, turning his face to the wall.
Sam raced up the companion-way as far as it went; then, going out on deck, climbed a flight of steps and found himself in the only part of the ship which was ever even comparatively private. The main herd of passengers preferred the promenade deck, two layers below.
He threaded his way through a maze of boats, ropes, and curious-shaped steel structures which the architect of the ship seemed to have tacked on at the last moment in a spirit of sheer exuberance. Above him towered one of the funnels, before him a long, slender mast. He hurried on, and presently came upon Billie sitting on a garden seat, backed by the white roof of the smoke-room; beside this was a small deck which seemed to have lost its way and strayed up here all by itself. It was the deck on which one could occasionally see the patients playing an odd game with long sticks and bits of wood—not shuffleboard but something even lower in the mental scale. This morning, however, the devotees of this pastime were apparently under proper restraint, for the deck was empty.
“This is jolly,” he said, sitting down beside the girl and drawing a deep breath of satisfaction.
“Yes, I love this deck. It’s so peaceful.”
“It’s the only part of the ship where you can be reasonably sure of not meeting stout men in flannels and nautical caps. An ocean voyage always makes me wish that I had a private yacht.”
“It would be nice.”
“A private yacht,” repeated Sam sliding a trifle closer. “We would sail about, visiting desert islands which lay like jewels in the heart of tropic seas.”
“We?”
“Most certainly we. It wouldn’t be any fun if you were not there.”
“That’s very complimentary.”
“Well, it wouldn’t. I’m not fond of girls as a rule….”
“Oh, aren’t you?”
“No!” said Sam decidedly. It was a point which he wished to make clear at the outset. “Not at all fond. My friends have often remarked upon it. A palmist once told me that I had one of those rare spiritual natures which cannot be satisfied with substitutes but must seek and seek till they find their soul-mate. When other men all round me were frittering away their emotions in idle flirtations which did not touch their deeper natures, I was … I was … well, I wasn’t, if you see what I mean.”
“Oh, you wasn’t … weren’t—?”
“No. Some day I knew I should meet the only girl I could possibly love, and then I would pour out upon her the stored-up devotion of a lifetime, lay an unblemished heart at her feet, fold her in my arms and say ‘At last!’”
“How jolly for her. Like having a circus all to oneself.”
“Well, yes,” said Sam after a momentary pause.
“When I was a child I always thought that that would be the most wonderful thing in the world.”
“The most wonderful thing in the world is love, a pure and consuming love, a love which….”
“Oh, hello!” said a voice.
All through this scene, right from the very beginning of it, Sam had not been able to rid himself of a feeling that there was something missing. The time and the place and the girl—they were all present and correct; nevertheless there was something missing, some familiar object which seemed to leave a gap. He now perceived that what had caused the feeling was the complete absence of Bream Mortimer. He was absent no longer. He was standing in front of them with one leg, his head lowered as if he were waiting for someone to scratch it. Sam’s primary impulse was to offer him a nut.
“Oh, hello, Bream!” said Billie.
“Hullo!” said Sam.
“Hullo!” said Bream Mortimer. “Here you are!”
There was a pause.
“I thought you might be here,” said Bream.
