CHAPTER 1 OF THE GIRL ON THE BOAT Through the curtained windows of the furnished flat 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 Ormalu clock in the sitting-room to eleven minutes past ten, those of the carriage-clock on the bookshelf to fourteen minutes to 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, the world famous right here on Theosophy, the 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. About this time there was a good deal of suffering in the United States, for nearly every boat that arrived from England was bringing a fresh swarm of British lecturers to the country. Novelists, poets, scientists, philosophers, and plain ordinary boars—some herd instinct 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 half way 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 as the breath of life to her. Its shady walks, its silver lake, its noble elms, the old 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 Eustis, until such time as he should marry, and take possession of it himself. There were times when the thought of Eustis 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 to now. Eustis 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. Eustis would get up at half-past nine, long after she had finished breakfast, read her correspondence, and started her duties for the day. Breakfast was on the table in the sitting-room, a modest meal of rolls, porridge, and imitation coffee.  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 eminent 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. All together a dull male. Mrs. Hignett skimmed through it without interest, setting aside one or two of the letters for Eustis, 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 of advanced years, entered the room. Ma'am, 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 parlor. The staff remained for a moment in melancholy silence, then resumed. He says he's your nephew, his name's 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 fit her than most. He had grown a good deal since she had last met him, as men so often 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 a weight about thirteen stone. 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. Hignett. There was a pause. Mrs. Hignett, 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 omitted 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 was 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. I like America myself, said Sam. I've had a wonderful time. Everybody's 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's the greatest invention on record. And what brought you to America? said Mrs. Hignett, unmoved by this rhapsody. Oh, I came over to play golf in a tournament, you know. Surely at your age, said Mrs. Hignett disapprovingly, you could be better occupied. Do you spend your whole time playing golf? Oh, no. I play cricket a bit and shoot a bit, and I swim a good lot, and 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 old Eustace will be getting hitched up one of these days, said Sam. Mrs. Hignett 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 is 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 had always been fond of his cousin in that half-amused and rather patronizing way, in which men of thues and sinews are fond of the weaker brethren, who run more to pallor and intellect. And he had always felt that if Eustace had not had to retire to Wendals to spend his life with a woman whom from his earliest years he had always considered the empress 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 bean. Sam remembered Eustace at school, breaking gas-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 Tinney, 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 Saturday, 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 imperative that, while she was away, he should be at Wendals. Nothing would have induced her to leave the place at the mercy of servants who might trample over the flower beds, 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 is he going to live when he gets to England? Where is he going to live? Why, at Wendals, of course. Where else? But I thought you were letting Wendals for the summer. Letting Wendals? She spoke, as one might address a lunatic. What put that extraordinary idea into your head? I thought Father said something about you are 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 Wendals for the summer was one which had long since begun to infuriate Mrs. Hignett. People had certainly asked her to let Wendals. 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 Wendals for the day, Mr. Bennett had fallen in love with the place, and had 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. She had not been in America two days when there had arrived a Mr. Mortimer, bosom friend of Mr. Bennett, carrying on the matter where the other had left off. For a whole week, Mr. Mortimer had tried to induce her to reconsider her decision, and had only stopped because he had had to leave for England himself to join his friend. And even then the thing had gone on. Indeed, this very morning, among the letters on Mrs. Hignett's table, the buff envelope of a cable from Mr. Bennett had peeped out, nearly spoiling her breakfast. No wonder, then, that Sam's allusion to the affair had caused the authoress of The Spreading Light momentarily to lose her customary calm. Nothing will induce me ever to let windles, she said with finality, and rose significantly. Sam, perceiving that the audience was at an end, and glad of it, also got up. Well, I think I'll be going down and seeing about that state room, he said. Certainly, I am a little busy just now, preparing 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, good-bye. Good-bye. Mrs. Hignett, frowning, for the interview had ruffled her and disturbed that equable 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 Aaron once more. Ma'am, there was a gentleman. This is intolerable, cried Mrs. Hignett. Did you tell him that 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 and a tall-shaped hat. His name is Breem Mortimer. Breem Mortimer? Yes, ma'am. He handed me a bit of a card, but I dropped it, being slippy from the dishes. Mrs. Hignett strode to the door with a forbidding expression. This, as she had justly remarked, was intolerable. She remembered Breem Mortimer. He was the son of the Mr. Mortimer who wanted windles. This visit could only have to do with a subject of windles, and she went into the dining-room in a state of cold fury, determined to squash the Mortimer family in the person of their New York representative once and for all. Good morning, Mr. Mortimer! Breem 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 a Breem Mortimer in restaurants eating roast beef. They had the feeling that he would have preferred sunflower seeds. Mrs. Hignett? Please sit down. Breem Mortimer looked as though he would rather have hopped on to a perch, but he sat down. He glanced about the room with gleaming, excited eyes. Mrs. Hignett, 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 is quite impossible. I will never consent. Breem Mortimer started. Then you have heard about it? I have heard about nothing else since I met Mr. Bennett in London. Mr. Bennett talked about nothing else. Your father talked about nothing else, and now, cried Mrs. Hignett fiercely, you will 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 did not come about windles? Good Lord, no. Then will you kindly tell me why you have come? Breem Mortimer seemed 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. Hignett. Then began again. I'm not a man who gossips with vallets. No. I'm not a man who— Mrs. Hignett 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. No, but he's going to be at eleven o'clock this morning at the little church round the corner. Mrs. Hignett 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. I'm one of these 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've 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. Honest fact. I had it from my valet, who had it from her maid. Will you please tell me who is the girl my misguided son wishes to marry? I don't know that I'd call him misguided, said Mr. Mortimer, as one desiring to be fair. I think he's a right smart picker. She's such a corking girl, you know. We were children together and I've loved her for years—ten 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 chaps, you see, with a great line of talk. I'm not— If you will kindly, said Mrs. Hignet 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? The sort of man who— What is her name? Bennet. Bennet? Willamina 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.  I think you ought to stop the thing. I intend to. Fine. The marriage would 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 color. If I've thought that once, said Breem Mortimer, I've thought it a hundred times. I wish I had a dollar for every time I have thought it, not the same color. 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? It's getting late. She'll be waiting at the church at eleven. Eustis will not be there. You think you can fix it? Eustis will not be there, repeated Mrs. Hignet. Breem 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. Breem Mortimer looked somewhat apprehensive. You won't tell him that 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 crabbed his act, gave the thing away, gummed the game. I shall not mention your chivalrous intervention. Chivalrous? said Breem Mortimer a little doubtfully. I don't know that I'd 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, good-bye. Good-bye. When you reach England, remember me to your father.  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 Breem 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. End of Chapter 1, read by Kara Schallenberg, www.kray.org, in June 2011, in San Diego, California. Chapter 2, Part 1 of The Girl on the Boat by P. G. Woodhouse. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 2, Part 1. Gallant rescue by a well-dressed young man. 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 fruits were flowing on board in a steady stream. The usual drove of citizens had come to see the travelers 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 thirty-seven of her late neighbors 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 customs sheds were congested with friends and relatives, and Sam Marlowe, heading for the gang-plank, was only able to make progress by employing all the muscle and energy which nature had bestowed upon him, and which, during the greater part of his life, he had developed by athletic exercise. However, after some minutes of silent endeavor, now driving his shoulder into the midriff of some obstructing male, 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 had been bitten, and this puzzled him, for 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 color. 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 one 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. At 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 rugs in the neighbourhood of the girl's lower ribs a sharp yapping sound, of such a calibre as to be plainly audible over the confused noise of Mamies who were telling Sadies to be sure and right, of bills 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 hawking their wares on every side. I hope he didn't hurt you 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 waiters at the hotel, 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 goggled, a rotten exhibition. Perhaps he would never see this girl again. She looked the sort of girl who comes to see her friends off and doesn't sail herself. And what memory of him would she retain?  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, through a rich smell of India rubber and mixed pickles, as far as the dining saloon, then turned down the narrow passage leading to his state room. State rooms on ocean liners are curious things. When you see them on the chart in the passenger office, with the gentlemanly clerk drawing rings round them in pencil, 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 has shrunk to the dimensions of an undersized cupboard in which it would be impossible to swing a cat. And 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 eloquently 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 Eustice. It was going to be a tight fit. Eustice's bag was already in the cabin and it seemed to take up the entire fairway. Still, after all, Eustice 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, Eustice, said Sam. Eustice Hignet nodded 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 verse Libre, as 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 the university, he had expected something rather cheerier than this.  The man sitting on the bag before him could hardly have filled that role at a gathering of Russian novelists. What on earth the matter? said Sam. The matter? Eustice 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 Sam 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 yours? Oh, sorry, go ahead. Eustice Hignet scowled at the printed notice on the wall, informing occupants of the state-room that the name of their steward was J.B. Midgeley. She was an extraordinarily pretty girl. So was mine. I give you my honest word, I never in all my life saw such... Of course, if you prefer that I postponed my narrative, said Eustice 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 made a hit. Now get on with the story. Don't bustle me, said Eustice quirelessly. Well, you know, the voyage only takes eight days. I've forgotten where I was. You were saying what a 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. 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 dashed sure my mother would, so we decided to get married without telling anybody. By now, said Eustice, with a morose glance at the porthole, I ought to have been on my honeymoon. Everything was settled. I had the 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. 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 Eustice, you mustn't. And you said, very well, mother, and scratched 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? Eustice groaned. All of them, the whole ballet 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 single damned pair of bags in the whole place. I looked everywhere. Finally I went into the sitting-room, where she was writing letters, and asked if she had happened to see any, anywhere. She said she had sent them all 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. A fat lot of use that was, I had to be at the church at eleven. Well, I told her I had a 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 had better telephone to the man and put it off. I did it, too, rang up the first number in the book and told some fellow I had never seen in my life that I couldn't meet him because I hadn't any trousers. He was pretty peeved, judging from what he said about my being on the wrong number, and mother, listening all the time, and I knowing that 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 Ser Gala 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 that she could forgive a man anything except being ridiculous. I think you're well out of it, said Sam, judicially. She can't have been much of a girl. 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 have 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 mother behaved, and how Will Amina treated me, I wonder there isn't a law against them. What mighty ills have not been done by woman? Who was to betray the capital? In Washington, said Sam, puzzled. He had heard nothing of this, but then he generally confined his reading of the papers to the sporting page.  Oh, as long ago as that! I was quoting from Thomas Otway's Orphan. I wish I could write like Otway. He knew what he was talking about. Who was to betray the capital? A woman. Who lost Mark Anthony the World? A woman. Who was the cause of a long ten years' war and laid at last old Troy and 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 Eustis Hignet. 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 by, go and tell it to the captain, or the ship's cat, or JB Midgeley. Do try to realize 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 open the bar directly we passed the three-mile limit. How about a small one? Eustis 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.  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 Eustis Hignet, pulling a pair of mauve pajamas out of the kit-bag. I'm 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. About now the sheep would be separating from the goats. The passengers would be on deck and their friends returning to the shore. A slight tremor in 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 was she not? The next few minutes would decide. He reached the top of the stairs and passed out on to 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 aloofly 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 rubber-necks, 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.  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 out 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 chomps 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 the tweed cap, incensed at having been jostled out of the front row, made his charge. He had but 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. End of Chapter 2 Part 1, read by Kara Schellenberg on June 4, 2011, in San Diego, California. Chapter 2 Part 2 of The Girl on the Boat by P. G. Woodhouse. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Gallant Rescue by Well-Dressed Young Man, Part 2. 3. In the brief interval of time which Marlowe had spent in the state room 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 to grip the reader, should, I am aware, go always forward. It should march. It should leap from crag to crag, like the chamois of the Alps. If there is one thing I hate, it is a novel which gets you interested in the hero in Chapter 1, and then cuts back in Chapter 2 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 state room, the girl with the red hair came out again on deck. This happened just about the time when Eustace Hignet was beginning his narrative. The girl went to the rail and gazed earnestly at the shore. There was a rattle, as the gangplank moved inboard 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. It was now that the man on the dock sighted the girl. She gesticulated at him. He gesticulated at her. He produced a handkerchief, swiftly tied up a bundle of currency bills in it, backed to give himself room, and then, with all the strength of his arm, hurled the bills in the direction of the deck. 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 out over the wavelets. It was at this moment that Mr. Oscar Swenson, 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 in circles, the pleading face of a twenty dollar bill peered up at him. Mr. Swenson was not the man to resist the appeal. He uttered a sharp bark of ecstasy, pressed his bowler 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. Svenske exclaimed Mr. Swenson, 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. Swenson desired no competitors in his treasure-seeking enterprise. He travels, thought Mr. Swenson, the 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. Swenson, who, being practically amphibious, had not anticipated that anyone would have the cool impertinence to try to save him from drowning, found himself seized from behind and towed vigorously away from a ten-dollar 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. They only draw back 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 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 of steel and India rubber, who is being lugged away from cash which he has been regarding in the light of a legacy. Indeed it would 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. Swensen betrayed all the symptoms of one who feels that he has fallen among murderers. Mr. Swensen, much as he disliked competition, was ready to put up with it, provided that it was fair competition. This pulling your rival away from the loot so that you could grab it for 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 faced 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 struggles against his best interests. In which case, cruel to be kind, one simply stunned the blighter. He decided to stun Mr. Swensen, though if he had known that 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. Swensen, 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 bowler hat. It was the worst thing he could have done. Mr. Swensen 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. Swensen's limbs from about him. By this time he was sure that he had never met anyone he disliked so intensely as Mr. Swensen, not even his aunt Adeline. The man was a human octopus. Sam could count seven distinct legs twined round 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 try to kick Mr. Swensen in the face, Sam shot to the surface.   The time which Sam had spent with Mr. Swensen 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 scous, skiffs, launches, tugs, and other vessels. The fact that the water in that vicinity was quested 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 precedent, had taken his little daughter to bear him company. It was to this fact that Marlowe really owed his rescue. Women often have a vein of sentiment in them where men can only see 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 humaneer 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 a sort of dream he perceived Mr. Swenson rise to the surface some feet away, adjust his bowler 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 your 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. Wet's the word, all right. Good and wet, that's what you are. It's the water, said Sam.  He wished he could remember what that appointment was. That's what has made me wet. It sure made you wet, all right, agreed the girl. She looked at him interestedly. What you do it for, she asked. Do it for? Yes, what you do it for. What you do a brody for off in that ship.  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 around the last I seen of her. She's not gone. Sure she's gone. What you 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? Of course I do. Then for the love of Pete, what should do and wallop and 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 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 said in his ways, and right now he's fishing for dollar bills with the boat hook. He's apt to get sort of 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 her 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, won't you? 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 of one of the harder forms of wood. Deftly extracting this from its place, she smote her inattentive 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 of a lamp. 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. Twenty 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 clamily. 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 a steward in the doorway of the dining saloon. You are wet, said a stewardess in the passage. Sam raced for his stateroom. He bolted in and sank on the lounge. In the lower berth Eustace Hignett was lying with closed eyes. He opened them languidly, then stared. Hello, he said. I say. You're wet. Four. Sam removed his clinging garments and hurried into a new suit. He was in no mood for conversation and Eustace Hignett'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 is 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 is all right. The table steward said so. Yes, but go and make 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 dens 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 Sir Lancelot or Sir Galaad would have done, but you shouldn't have bothered, really. It's all right now. Oh, it's all right now?  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 had just pulled in the gangplank. 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 grateful to that obese bounder who had shoved him off the rail, but now he would have liked to seek him out and shake him by the hand. 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 though propelled by some irresistible force. It was nothing, nothing really. One just happens to have the 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 the 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 away. 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 of one who feels that he only needs a peaked 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 Sam, 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 into her eyes. Oh, you are 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 deck? 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? Wilhelmina Bennet. My friends, she said softly as she turned away. Call me Billy. End of Chapter 2, Part 2, read by Kara Schallenberg on June 4, 2011, in San Diego, California. Chapter 3 of The Girl on the Boat, by PG Woodhouse. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Sam paves the way. 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 Eustis Hignett's story of his blighted romance, Sam had formed an unflattering opinion of this Wilhelmina 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 Eustis Hignett's affections. And now they had proved to be one and the same. It was disturbing. 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 Wilhelmina Bennet. Eustis, he felt, had been to blame throughout. If this girl had maltreated Eustis's finer feelings, then her reason for doing so must have been excellent and praiseworthy. After all, poor old Eustis, quite a good fellow, no doubt in many ways, but coming down to brass tacks, what was there about Eustis that gave him any claim to monopolize the affections of a wonderful girl? Where, in a word, did Eustis Hignett get off? He made a tremendous grievance of the fact that she had broken off the engagement, but what right had he to go about the place expecting her to be engaged to him? Eustis Hignett, no doubt, looked upon the poor girl as utterly heartless. Marlowe regarded her behavior as thoroughly sensible. She had made a mistake, and, realizing this at the eleventh hour, she had had the force of character to correct it. He was sorry for poor old Eustis, but he really could not permit the suggestion that Wilhelmina Bennet, her friends called her Billy, had not behaved in a perfectly splendid way throughout. It was women like Wilhelmina 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 practiced 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 Eustis Hignett. If Eustis 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 Eustis's society. As a man who had been actually engaged to marry this supreme girl, Eustis Hignett 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 state room almost reverentially, with something of the emotions of a boy going into his first dime museum. The exhibit was lying on his back, staring at the roof of the berth.  But it would be palturing with the truth to say that he felt debonair. He received Sam with a wan 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 have had good results for the last ten minutes by thinking steadily of the Sahara. There, said Eustis Hignett with enthusiasm, is a 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 some more about your unfortunate affair with that girl, Billy Bennett, I think you said her name was. Wilhelmina Bennett, where on earth did you get the idea that her name was Billy? 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 you're on board ship at all. There's something in that, admitted Eustis, 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. Eustis Hignet broke off abruptly. He had a good memory, and he had just recollected the fish they had served at that dinner.  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 are perfectly right as it happens. Her hair was remarkably beautiful. It was red. Like autumn leaves with the sun on them, said Marlow ecstatically. Hignet started. What an extraordinary thing! That is an absolutely exact description. Her eyes were a deep blue. Or, rather, green. Blue. Green. There is a shade of green that looks blue.  Am I telling you about her? Or are you telling me? My dear old man, don't get excited. Don't you see I am trying to construct this girl in my imagination to visualize 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 color of my face. Now you've gone and reminded me just when I was beginning to forget. Offly sorry.   What were we saying? Oh yes, this girl. I always think it helps one to form a mental picture of people if one knows something about their tastes. What sort of things they are interested in, their favorite 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 in a competition in a weekly paper, but he was self-critic enough to know that poetry was not his long suit. Still there was a library on board the ship, and no doubt it would be possible to borrow the works of some standard bard and bone them up from time to time. Any special poet? Well, she seemed to like my stuff. You never read my sonnet sequence on spring, did you? No. What other poets did she like besides you? Tennyson, principally, said Eustace Hignet with a reminiscent queerer in his voice. The hours we have spent together reading The Idols of the King. The witch of what, inquired Sam, taking a pencil from his pocket and shooting out a cuff. The Idols of the King. My good man, I know you have a soul which would be considered inadequate by a common earthworm, but you have surely heard of Tennyson's Idols of the King. Oh, those! Why, my dear old chap, Tennyson's Idols of the King. Well, I should say. Have I heard of Tennyson's Idols of the King? Well, really! I suppose you haven't a 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 had much sooner talked to a girl about golf than poetry. You are hardly likely to be in a position to have to talk to Willamine Bennett about either, I should imagine. No, there's that, of course. I was thinking of girls in general. Some girls bar golf, and then it's rather difficult to know how to start the conversation. But tell me, were there any topics which got on this 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.  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—Willamine and I, I mean—were to have been married. It is 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 quarrelously. I remember Willamine once getting quite annoyed with me because I refused to step in and separate a couple of the brutes, absolute strangers to me, who were fighting in the street. I reminded her that we were all fighters nowadays, that life itself was in a sense a fight, but she wouldn't be reasonable about it. She said that Sir Gala had would have done it like a shot. I thought not. We have no evidence whatsoever that Sir Gala had was ever called upon to do anything half as dangerous. And anyway, he wore armour. 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 the 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. The 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 to bursting point with these reflections, he went on deck to join the anti-lunch and promenade. He saw Billy almost at once. She had put on one of those nice, sacky sport coats which so enhanced feminine charms and was striding along the deck with the breeze playing in her vivid hair, like the female equivalent of a Viking. Beside her walked young Mr. Bream Mortimer. Sam had been feeling a good deal more 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, 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 great heavy coat of mine down to my state room, 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 it on the birth. It doesn't matter about folding it up. All right, said Bream moodily. He trotted along.  Bream Mortimer was experiencing such a moment. 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 Breams might well deposit a cloak on a berth and be back under the half-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 emotion 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. 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 a mixture for Pinky, which did him a world of good. I don't know what was in it, except Worcester Sauce, but she said she always gave it to her mules in Africa when they had the bots. It's 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. Oh, 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 anything to catch hold of. She looked down. Have you been reading? What is the book? The book? Oh, this. It's a volume of Tennyson. Are you fond of Tennyson? I worship him, said Sam reverently. Those—he glanced at his cuff—those idols 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's my favorite poet. We will. There is something about Tennyson. Yes, isn't there? I've felt that myself so often. Some poets are whales 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 that his long game was just as good as his short, he was great off the tee and a marvel with his chip shots. That sounds as though you play golf. When I am 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. You seem to like all the things I like. 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 one another again up here afterwards. We will, said Sam. We'll sit and read Tennyson. Fine. Er, you and I and Mortimer. Oh, no! Bream is going to sit down below and look after poor Pinky. Does he know he is? Not yet, said Billy. I'm going to tell him at lunch. End of Chapter 4. Read by Kara Schallenberg on June 4th, 2011, in San Diego, California. Chapter 4 Part 1 of The Girl on the Boat by P. G. Woodhouse. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 4 Part 1. Sam Clicks. 1. It was the fourth morning of the voyage. Of course, when this story is done in the movies they won't be satisfied with a bald statement like that. They will have a spoken title, or a 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. Sam Marlowe, muffled in a bathrobe, came back to the stateroom from his tub. His manner had the offensive jauntiness of the man who has had a cold bath when he might just as easily have had a hot one. He looked out of the porthole at the shimmering sea. He felt strong and happy and exuberant. It was not merely the spiritual pride induced by a cold bath that was uplifting this young man. The fact was that, as he toweled his glowing back, he had suddenly come to the decision that this very day he would propose to Wilhelmina Bennett. Yes, he would put his fortune to the test, to win or lose it all. True, he had only known her for four days, but what of that? Nothing in the way of modern progress is more remarkable than the manner in which the attitude of your lover has changed concerning proposals of marriage. When Samuel Marlowe's grandfather had convinced himself, after about a year and a half of respectful aloofness, that the emotion which he felt towards Samuel Marlowe's grandmother to be was love, the fashion of the period compelled him to approach the matter in a roundabout way. First he spent an evening or two singing sentimental ballads, she accompanying him on the piano and the rest of the family sitting on the 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, poor Parlaire's having passed with her aunt, two more sisters, and her little brother, he felt that the moment had arrived when he might send her a volume of Shelley with some of the passages marked in pencil. A few weeks later he interviewed her father and obtained his consent to the paying of his addresses, and finally, after writing her a letter which began, Madam, you will not have been insensible to the fact that for some time past you have inspired in my bosom feelings deeper than those of ordinary friendship. He waylaid her in the rose garden and brought the thing off. How different is the behaviour of the modern young man? His courtship can hardly be called a courtship at all. His methods are those of Sir W. S. Gilbert's Alfonso. Alfonso, who for cool assurance all creation licks, he up and said to Emily, who has cheeky enough for six, Miss Emily, I love you, will you marry, say the word, and Emily said, certainly Alfonso like a bird. Sam Marlowe 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 Bennett had been set apart by fate from the beginning of time to be his bride. He had known it from the moment he saw her on the dock, and all the subsequent strolling, reading, talking, soup drinking, tea drinking, and 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 Marlowe's was a byword in Brutton Street, Berkeley Square, and something seemed to whisper that she loved him. At any rate, she wanted somebody like Sir Galahad, and without wishing to hurl bouquets at himself, he could not see where she could possibly get anyone like her, Sir Galahad, than himself. So, wind and weather permitting, Samuel Marlowe intended to propose to Wilhelmina Bennett this very day. He let down the trick basin which hung beneath the mirror, and, collecting his shaving materials, began to lather his face. I am the bandolero, saying Sam blithely through the soap. I am, I am the bandolero. Yes, yes, I am the bandolero. The untidy heap of bed clothes in the lower berth stirred restlessly. Oh, God! said Eustis Hignet, thrusting out a tousaled head. Sam regarded his cousin with commiseration. Horrid things had been happening to Eustis 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 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 shown 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. Eustis Hignet shuddered. He eyed Sam sourly. You seem devilish-pleased with yourself this morning, he said, sensoriously. 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? Eustis 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 Eustis 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 Eustis 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 are intending to propose to this girl, probably this morning. Not this morning, after lunch. I always think one can do oneself more justice after lunch. Don't do it.  Do you realize 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 realize? 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-bock, 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. Two. 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 Billy Bennett, trim and gleaming in a pale green sweater and 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 ship if the weather is fine. Yes, doesn't it? How strange it is that the great emotional scenes of history, one of which is coming along almost immediately, always begin in this prosaic way. Shakespeare tries to conceal the fact, but there can be little doubt that Romeo and Juliet edged into their balcony scene with a few remarks on the pleasantness of the morning. Shall we walk round, said 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 a tube station during the rush hour. It's so crowded, he said. Let's go on to the upper deck. All right, you can read to me.  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.  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 want to start reading poetry, especially Tennyson's, 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 Tennyson you gave me? I left it—ah, here it is. Well, see you later. Wait, what are you going to do? Oh, that girl I told you about, said Sam, making for the door. She wants me to read Tennyson to her on the upper deck. Tennyson? Yes. On the upper deck? Yes. This is the end, said Eustace 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 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 tropical 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 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 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 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. Mind if I join you, said Bream? No, said Billy. No, said Sam. No, said Billy again. No, that is to say, oh no, not at all. There was a third pause. On second thoughts, said Bream, I believe I'll take a stroll on the promenade deck if you don't mind. They said they did not mind. Bream Mortimer, having bumped his head twice against overhanging steel ropes, melted away. Who is that fellow, demanded Sam wrathfully? He's the son of Father's best friend. Sam started. Somehow this girl had always been so individual to him that he had never thought of her having a father. We have known each other all our lives, continued 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 in 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 something for it. I said I could only do conjuring tricks and juggling and so on, and he said all right, do conjuring tricks and juggling then. He wanted to know if I knew anyone else who would help. I came up to ask you, he said to Sam, if you would do something. No, said Sam, I won't. He's got a man who's going to lecture on deep-sea fish and a couple of women who both want to sing the rosary, but he's still a turn or two short. Sure you won't rally round? Quite sure. Oh, all right. Bream Mortimer hovered wistfully above them. It's a great morning, isn't it? Yes, said Sam. Oh, Bream, said 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 say, have a heart. She's a very nice girl. She's so darned dynamic.  Nonsense, run along.  They are most interesting. Bream drifted sadly away. I don't blame Miss Hubbard, said Sam. What do you mean? Looking at him as if she wanted to pot at him with a rifle. I should like to do it myself. Oh, don't let's talk about Bream. Read me some Tennyson. End of Chapter 4 Part 1, read by Kara Schellenberg in June 2011 in San Diego, California. Chapter 4 Part 2 of The Girl on the Boat by P. G. Woodhouse. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Sam clicks. Part 2. 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 rely on him every time. He cleared his throat. Oh, let the solid ground not fail beneath my feet before my life has found what some have found so sweet. Then let come what come may, what matter if I go mad, I shall have had my day. Let the sweet heavens endure, not close and dark and above me, before I am quite, quite sure that there is one to love me. This was absolutely topping. It was like diving off a springboard. He could see the girl sitting with a soft smile on her face, her eyes big and dreamy, gazing out over the sunlit sea. He laid down the book and took her hand. There is something, he began in a low voice, which I have been trying to say ever since we met, something which I think you must have read in my eyes. Her head was bent. She did not withdraw her hand. Until this voyage began, he went on, I did not know what life meant, and then I saw you. It was like the gate of heaven opening. You are 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 don't know what's the matter with me. Billy, darling, you are the only girl in the world. I have been looking for you for years and years, and I have found you at last, my soulmate. Surely this does not come as a surprise to you. That is, I mean, you must have seen that I've been keen. There's that damned Walt Mason stuff again. His eyes fell on the volume beside him, and he uttered an exclamation of enlightenment. It's those poems, he cried, I've been boning them up to such an extent that they've got me doing it, too. What I'm trying to say is, will you marry me? She was drooping towards him.  He slid an arm about her waist. She raised her lips to his. Three. 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 is to say, of course it will. She traced a pattern on the deck with her shoe. I'm afraid of myself. You see, once before—and it was not so very long ago— I thought I had met my ideal, but— Sam laughed heartily. Are you worrying about that absurd business of poor old Eustace Hignet? She started violently. You know? Of course, he told me himself. Do you know him? Where did you meet him? I've known him all my life. He's my cousin. As a matter of fact, we are sharing a state room on board now. Eustace is on board? Oh, this is awful. What shall I do when I meet him? Oh, just pass it off with a light laugh and a genial quip.  You know the sort of thing. It will 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 swineherd. 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 sterner 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, a splendid chap, said Sam tolerantly. Have you ever heard him sing? I think what first attracted me to him was his beautiful voice. He really sings extraordinarily well. A slight but definite spasm of jealousy afflicted Sam. He had no objection to praising poor old Eustace within decent limits, but the conversation seemed to him to be confining itself too exclusively to one subject. Yes, he said. Oh yes, I've heard him sing. Not lately. He does drawing-room ballads and all that sort of thing still, I suppose. Have you ever heard him sing, My love is like a glowing tulip that in an old world garden grows? I have not had that advantage, replied Sam stifly. But anyone can sing a drawing-room ballad. Now something funny, something that will make people laugh, something that really needs putting across. That's a different thing altogether. Do you sing that sort of thing? People have been good enough to say. Then, said 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 will tell Bream to count on you. He is an excellent accompanist. He can accompany you. Yes, but— Well, I don't know, said Sam doubtfully. He could not help remembering that the last time he had sung in public had been at a house supper at school, seven years before, and that on that occasion somebody, whom it was a lasting grief to him that he had been unable to identify, had thrown a pat of butter at him. Of course you must sing, said Billy. I'll tell Bream when I go down to lunch. What will you sing? Well, er— Well, I'm sure it will be wonderful, whatever it is. You are so wonderful in every way. You remind me of one of the heroes of old. Sam's discomposure vanished. In the first place this was much more the sort of conversation which he felt the situation indicated. In the second place he had remembered that there was no need for him to sing at all. He could do that imitation of Frank Tinney, which had been such a hit at the Trinity Smoker. He was on safe ground there. He knew he was good. He clasped the girl to him and kissed her sixteen times. Four.  On the lounge beside her, swathed in a business-like grey kimono, Jane Hubbard watched her, smoking a cigarette. Jane Hubbard was a splendid specimen of bronzed, strapping womanhood. Her whole appearance spoke of the open air and the great wide spaces, and all that sort of thing. She was a thoroughly wholesome, manly girl, about the same age as Billy, with a strong chin, and an eye that had looked leopards squarely in the face, and caused them to withdraw a bashed into the undergrowth, or wherever it is that leopards withdraw when a bashed. One could not picture Jane Hubbard flirting lightly at garden parties, but one could picture her very readily arguing with a mutinous native bearer, or with a firm touch putting sweetness and light, into the soul of a refractory mule. Bodica in her girlhood must have been rather like Jane Hubbard. She smoked contentedly. She had rolled her cigarette herself with one hand, a feet beyond the powers of all but the very greatest. She was pleasantly tired after walking eighty-five times round the promenade deck. Soon she would go to bed and fall asleep the moment her head touched the pillow. But meanwhile she lingered here, for she felt that Billy had something to confide in her. Jane, said Billy, have you ever been in love? Jane Hubbard knocked the ash off her cigarette. Not since I was eleven, she said in her deep musical voice. He was my music master. He was forty-seven and completely bald, but there was an appealing weakness in him which won my heart. He was afraid of cats, I remember. Billy gathered her hair into a molten bundle, and let it run through her fingers. Oh, Jane, she exclaimed, surely you don't like weak men. I like a man who is strong and brave and wonderful. I can't stand brave men, said Jane. It makes them so independent. I could only love a man who would depend on me in everything. Sometimes, when I have been roughing it out in the jungle, she went on rather wistfully. I have had my dreams of some gentle clinging man who would put his hand in mine and tell me all his poor little troubles, and let me pet and comfort him and bring the smiles back to his face. I'm beginning to want to settle down. After all, there are other things for a woman to do in this life besides travelling and big game-hunting. I should like to go into Parliament. And, if I did that, I should practically have to marry. I mean, I should have to have a man to look after the social end of life and arrange parties and receptions and so on, and sit ornamentally at the head of my table. I can't imagine anything jollier than marriage under conditions like that. When I came back a bit done up after a long sitting at the house, he would mix me a whisky and soda and read poetry to me, or prattle about all the things he had been doing during the day, why it would be ideal. Jane Hubbard gave a little sigh. Her fine eyes gazed dreamily at a smoke ring which she had sent floating towards the ceiling. Jane, said Billy, I believe you are thinking of somebody definite. Who is he? The big game-huntress blushed. The embarrassment which she exhibited made her look manlier than ever. I don't know his name. But there he is, really, someone? Yes. House blended. Tell me about him. Jane Hubbard clasped her strong hands and looked down at the floor. I met him on the subway a couple of days before I left New York. You know how crowded the subway is at the rush hour. I had a seat, of course, but this poor little fellow, so good-looking, my dear, he reminded me of the pictures of Lord Byron, was hanging from a strap and being jerked about till I thought his poor little arms would be wrenched out of their sockets. And he looked so unhappy as though he had some secret sorrow. I offered him my seat, but he wouldn't take it. A couple of stations later, however, the man next to me got out, and he sat down and we got into conversation. There wasn't time to talk much. I told him I had been downtown fetching an elephant gun, which I had left to be mended. He was so prettily interested when I showed him the mechanism. We got along famously. But—oh, well, it was just another case of ships that pass in the night. I'm afraid I've been boring you. Oh, Jane, you haven't. You see—you see, I'm in love myself. I had an idea you were, said her friend, looking at her critically. You've been refusing your oats the last few days, and that's a sure sign. You see that fellow that's always around with you and who looks like a parrot? Breem Mortimer? Good gracious no! cried Billy indignantly, as if I should fall in love with Breem. When I was out in British East Africa, said Miss Hubbard, I had a bird that was the living image of Breem Mortimer. I taught him to whistle Annie Laurie, and to ask for his supper in three native dialects. Eventually he died of the pip, poor fellow. Well, if it isn't Breem Mortimer, who is it? His name is Marlowe. He's tall and handsome and very strong-looking. He reminds me of a Greek god. Ugg, said Miss Hubbard. Jane, we're engaged. No, said the huntress, interested. When can I meet him? I'll introduce you to Marlowe. I'm so happy. That's fine. And yet, somehow, said Billy, plating her hair, do you ever have presentiments? I can't get rid of an awful feeling that something's going to happen to spoil everything. What could spoil everything? Well, I think him so wonderful, you know. Suppose he were to do anything to blur the image I have formed of him. Oh, he won't. You said he was one of those strong men, didn't you? They always run true to form. They never do anything except be strong. Billy looked meditatively at her reflection in the glass. You know, I thought I was in love once before, Jane. Yes? We were going to be married, and I had actually gone to the church, and I waited and waited, and he didn't come. And what do you think had happened? What?  Jane Hubbard laughed heartily. It's nothing to laugh at, said Billy seriously. It was a tragedy. I had always thought him romantic, and when this happened the scales seemed to fall from my eyes. I saw that I had made a mistake. And you broke off the engagement? Of course. I think you were hard on him. A man can't help his mother stealing his trousers. No, but when he finds they're gone, he can phone to the tailor for some more, or borrow the janitors or do something. But he simply stayed where he was and didn't do a thing. Just because he was too much afraid of his mother to tell her straight out that he meant to be married that day. Now that, said Miss Hubbard, is just the sort of trait in a man which would appeal to me. I like a nervous, shrinking man. I don't. Besides, it made him seem so ridiculous, and I don't know why it is. I can't forgive a man for looking ridiculous. Thank goodness my darling Sam couldn't look ridiculous, even if he tried. He is wonderful, Jane. He reminds me of a night of the round table.  Miss Hubbard got up and stretched herself with a yawn. Well, I'll be on the promenade deck after breakfast tomorrow. If you can arrange to have him flash his eyes then, say between 9.30 and 10, I shall be delighted to watch them. End of Chapter 4 Part 2, read by Kara Schellenberg in June 2011 in San Diego, California. Chapter 5 of The Girl on the Boat by P. G. Woodhouse. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 5 Persecution of Eustace. Good God! cried Eustace Hignet. He stared at the figure which loomed above him in the fading light which came through the porthole of the stateroom. The hour was 7.30, and he had just woken from a troubled dose, full of strange nightmares, and for the moment he thought that he must still be dreaming, for the figure before him could have walked straight into any nightmare, and no questions asked. Then suddenly he became aware that it was his cousin, Samuel Marlowe. As in the historic case of Father in the Big Stuy, he could tell him by his hat. But why was he looking like that? Was it simply some trick of the uncertain light, or was his face really black, and had his mouth suddenly grown to six times its normal size and become a vivid crimson? Sam turned. He had been looking at himself in the mirror, with a satisfaction which, to the casual observer, his appearance would not have seemed to justify. Hignet had not been suffering from a delusion.  Hello, you awake, he said, and switched on the light. Eustis Hignet shied like a startled horse. His friend's profile, seen dimly, had been disconcerting enough. Full face he was a revolting object. Nothing that Eustis Hignet had encountered in his recent dreams, and they had included such unusual fauna as elephants in top hats and running shorts, had affected him so profoundly. Sam's appearance smote him like a blow. It seemed to take him straight into a different and a dreadful world. What? What? What? He gurgled. Sam squinted at himself in the glass, and added a touch of black to his nose. How do I look? Eustis Hignet began to fear that his cousin's reason must have become unseated. He could not conceive of any really sane man looking like that, being anxious to be told how he looked. Are my lips red enough? It's for the ship's concert, you know. It starts in half an hour, though I believe I'm not on till the second part. Speaking as a friend, would you put a touch more black around the ears, or are they all right? Curiosity replaced apprehension in Hignet's mind. What on earth are you doing performing at the ship's concert? Oh, they roped me in. It got about somehow that I was a valuable man, and they wouldn't take no. Sam deepened the color of his ears. As a matter of fact, he said casually, my fiancé made rather a point of my doing something. A sharp yell from the lower berth proclaimed the fact that the significance of the remark had not been lost on Eustis. Your fiancé? The girl I'm engaged to. Didn't I tell you about that? Yes, I'm engaged. Eustis sighed heavily. I feared the worst. Tell me, who is she? Didn't I tell you her name? No. Curious, I must have forgotten. He hummed an airy strain as he blackened the tip of his nose. It's rather a curious coincidence, really. Her name is Bennett. She may be a relation. That's true. Of course, girls do have relations. What is her first name? That is another rather remarkable thing. It's Wilhelmina. Wilhelmina? Of course, there must be hundreds of girls in the world called Wilhelmina Bennett, but still it is a coincidence. What color is her hair? Demanded Eustis Hignet in a hollow voice. Her hair. What color is it? Her hair? Now let me see. You ask me what color is her hair? Well, you might call it auburn or russet, or you might call it Titian. Never mind what I might call it. Is it red? Red? Why, yes. That is a very good description of it. Now that you put it to me like that, it is red. Has she a trick of grabbing at you suddenly when she gets excited, like a kitten with a ball of wool? Yes, yes, she has. Eustis Hignet uttered a sharp cry. Sam, he said, can you bear a shock? I'll have a dash at it. Brace up. I'm ready. The girl you are engaged to is the same girl who promised to marry me. Well, well, said Sam. There was a silence. Awfully sorry, of course, and all that, said Sam. Don't apologize to me, said Eustis. My poor old chap, my only feeling towards you is one of the purest and profoundest pity. He reached out and pressed Sam's hand. I regard you as a toad beneath the harrow. Well, I suppose that's one way of offering congratulations and jerry good wishes. And on top of that went on Eustis, deeply moved. You have got to sing at the ship's concert. Why shouldn't I sing at the ship's concert? My dear old man, you have many worthy qualities, but you must know that you can't sing. You can't sing for nuts.   Sam started. Was it you who threw that bit of butter? It was. I wish I'd known.  Ah, well, it's seven years ago. You would have had to send it to the wash anyhow by this time. But don't let us brood on the past. Let us put our heads together and think how we can get you out of this terrible situation. I don't want to get out of it. I confidently expect to be the hit of the evening. The hit of the evening? You singing? I'm not going to sing. I'm going to do that imitation of Frank Tinney, which I did at the Trinity Smoker. You haven't forgotten that. You were at the piano taking the part of the conductor of the orchestra. What a riot I was. We were. I say, used to this old man, I suppose you don't feel well enough to come up now and take your old part. You could do it without a rehearsal. You remember how it went? Hello, Ernest. Hello, Frank. Why not come along? The only piano I will ever sit at will be one firmly fixed on a floor that does not heave and wobble under me. Nonsense. The boat says steady as a rock now, the seas like a mill pond. Nevertheless, thanking you for your suggestion? No. Oh, well, then I shall have to get on as best I can with that fellow mortimer. We've been rehearsing all the afternoon, and he seems to have the hang of the thing. But he won't be really right. He has no pep, no vim. Still, if you won't. Well, I think I'll be getting along to his stateroom. I told him I would look in for a last rehearsal. The door closed behind Sam, and Eustis Hignet, lying on his back, gave himself up to melancholy meditation. He was deeply disturbed by his cousin's sad story. He knew what it meant being engaged to Wilhelmina Bennett. It was like being taken aloft in a balloon and dropped with a thud on the rocks. His reflections were broken by the abrupt opening of the door. Sam rushed in. Eustis peered anxiously out of his berth. There was too much burnt cork on his cousin's face to allow of any real registering of emotion, but he could tell from his manner that all was not well. What's the matter? Sam sank down on the lounge. The Bounder has quit. The Bounder? What Bounder? There is only one. Brie Mortimer curse him. There may be others whom faultless critics rank as bounders, but he is the only man really deserving of the title. He refuses to appear. He has walked out on the act. He has left me flat. I went into his stateroom just now as arranged, and the man was lying on his bunk groaning. I thought you said the sea was like a mill-pond. It wasn't that. He's perfectly fit.  Apparently he's loved her for years in a silent, self-effacing way. And of course she told him that she was engaged to me, and the thing upset him to such an extent that he says the idea of sitting down at a piano and helping me give an imitation of Frank Tinney revolts him. He says he intends to spend the evening in bed reading Schopenhauer. I hope it chokes him. But this is splendid. This lets you out. What do you mean, lets me out? Why, now you won't be able to appear. Oh, you will be thankful for this in years to come. Won't I appear? Won't I dashed well appear? Do you think I'm going to disappoint that dear girl when she is relying on me?  But you can't appear without a pianist. I've got a pianist. You have? Yes, a little undersized shrimp of a fellow with a green face and ears like water wings. I don't think I know him. Yes, you do. He's you. Me? Yes, you.  I'm sorry to disappoint you, but it's impossible. I gave you my views on the subject just now. You've altered them. I haven't. Well, you soon will, and I'll tell you why.  But you've had dinner. Well, I'll have another. I feel just ready for a nice, fat pork chop. Stop, stop!  Now, how do we go? You wouldn't do that, said Eustis piteously. I would and I will. But I shouldn't be any good at the piano. I've forgotten how the thing used to go. You haven't done anything of the kind.  A child could do your part of it. Perhaps there is some child on board. No, I want you. I shall feel safe with you. We've done it together before. But honestly, I really don't think it isn't as if... Sam rose and extended a finger towards the bell. Stop, stop! cried Eustis Hignett. I'll do it. Sam withdrew his finger. Good, he said. We've just got time for a rehearsal while you're dressing. Hello, Ernest. Hello, Frank, said Eustis Hignett brokenly, as he searched for his unfamiliar trousers. End of Chapter 5, read by Kara Schellenberg in June 2011, in San Diego, California. Chapter 6 of The Girl on the Boat by P. G. Woodhouse. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 6, Seen at a Ship's Concert. Ship's concerts are given in aid of the seamen's orphans and widows, and after one has been present at a few of them, one seems to feel that any right-thinking orphan or widow would rather jog along and take a chance of starvation than to be the innocent cause of such things. They open with a long speech from the Master of Ceremonies, so long as a rule that it is only the thought of what is going to happen afterwards that enables the audience to bear it with fortitude. This done, the amateur talent is unleashed, and the grim work begins. It was not till after the all-too-brief intermission for rest and recuperation that the newly formed team of Marlowe and Hignett was scheduled to appear. Previous to this, there had been dark deeds done in the quiet saloon. The lecturer on Deep Sea Fish had fulfilled his threat and spoken at great length on a subject which, treated by a Master of Oratory, would have pawled on the audience after ten or fifteen minutes, and at the end of fifteen minutes this speaker had only just got past the Haddux and was feeling his way tentatively through the shrimps. The rosary had been sung, and there was an uneasy doubt as to whether it was not going to be sung again after the interval. The latest rumour being that the second of the rival ladies singers had proved adamant to all appeals and intended to fight the thing out on the lines she had originally chosen if they put her in irons. A young man had recited Gunga Din and willfully misinterpreting the gratitude of the audience that it was over, for a desire for more, had followed it with Fuzzy Wuzzy. His sister, these things run in families, had sung My Little Grey Home in the West, rather somberly, for she had wanted to sing the rosary, and, with the same obtuseness which characterised her brother, had come back and rendered plantation songs. The audience was now examining its programmes in the interval of silence in order to ascertain the duration of the sentence still remaining unexpired. It was shocked to read the following. 7. A Little Imitation, S. Marlowe All over the saloon you could see fair women and brave men wilting in their seats. Imitation, the word, as Keats would have said, was like a knell. Many of these people were old travellers and their minds went back wincingly, as one recalls forgotten wounds, to occasions when performers at ships' concerts had imitated whole strings of Dickens characters, or, with the assistance of a few hats and a little false hair, had endeavoured to portray Napoleon, Bismarck, Shakespeare, and other of the famous dead. In this printed line on the programme there was nothing to indicate the nature or scope of the Imitation, which this S. Marlowe proposed to inflict upon them. They could only sit and wait, and hope, that it would be short. There was a sinking of hearts as used as Hignett moved down the room and took his place at the piano. A pianist, this argued more singing. The more pessimistic began to fear that the Imitation was going to be one of those imitations of well-known opera artists which, though rare, do occasionally add to the horrors of ships' concerts. They stared at Hignett apprehensively. There seemed to be something ominous in the man's very aspect. His face was very pale and set, the face of one approaching a task at which his humanity shudders. They could not know that the pallor of used as Hignett was due entirely to the slight tremor which, even on the calmest nights, the engines of an ocean liner produce in the flooring of a dining-saloon, and to that faint, yet well-defined, smell of cooked meats which clings to a room where a great many people have recently been eating a great many meals. A few beads of cold perspiration were clinging to used as Hignett's brow. He looked straight before him with unseeing eyes. He was thinking hard of the Sahara. So Tense was used to his concentration that he did not see Billy Bennett seated in the front row. Billy had watched him enter with a little thrill of embarrassment. She wished that she had been content with one of the seats at the back, but Jane Hubbard had insisted on the front row. She always had a front row seat at witch dances in Africa, and the thing had become a habit. In order to avoid recognition for as long as possible, Billy now put up her fan and turned to Jane. She was surprised to see that her friend was staring eagerly before her with a fixity almost equal to that of Eustace. Under her breath she muttered an exclamation of surprise in one of the lesser-known dialects of northern Nigeria. Billy, she whispered sharply, What is the matter, Jane? Who is that man at the piano? Do you know him? As a matter of fact, I do, said Billy. His name is Hignet. Why? It's the man I met on the subway. She breathed a sigh.  At this moment their conversation was interrupted. Eustace Hignet, pulling himself together with a painful effort, raised his hands and struck a crashing chord, and as he did so, there appeared through the door at the far end of the saloon a figure at the sight of which the entire audience the entire audience started convulsively with the feeling that a worse thing had befallen them than even they had looked for. The figure was richly clad in some scarlet material.  It advanced towards them, smoking a cigar. Hello, earnest, it said. And then it seemed to pause expectantly as though desiring some reply. Dead silence reigned in the saloon. Hello, earnest! Those nearest the piano, and nobody more quickly than Jane Hubbard, now observed that the white face of the man on the stool had grown whiter still. His eyes gazed out glassily from under his damp brow. He looked like a man who was seeing some ghastly sight. The audience sympathized with him. They felt like that, too. In all human plans there is ever some slight hitch, some little miscalculation which just makes all the difference. A moment's thought should have told you to sign it that a half-smoked cigar was one of the essential properties to any imitation of the eminent Mr. Tinney, but he had completely overlooked the fact. The cigar came as an absolute surprise to him, and it could not have affected him more powerfully if it had been a voice from the tomb. He stared at it pallidly like Mecca Beth at the ghost of Banquo. It was a strong, lively young cigar, and its curling smoke played lightly about his nostrils. His jaw fell. His eyes protruded. He looked for a long moment like one of those deep-sea fishes concerning which the recent lecturer had spoken so searchingly. Then, with the cry of a stricken animal, he bounded from his seat and fled for the deck. There was a rustle at Billy's side as Jane Hubbard rose and followed him. Jane was deeply stirred. Even as he sat, looking so pale and piteous at the piano, her big heart had gone out to him, and now, in his moment of anguish, he seemed to bring to the surface everything that was best and manliest in her nature. Thrusting aside with one sweep of her powerful arm, a steward, who happened to be between her and the door, she raced in pursuit. Sam Marlowe had watched his cousin's dash for the open with a consternation so complete that his senses seemed to have left him. A general, deserted by his men on some stricken field, might have felt something akin to his emotion. Of all the learned professions, the imitation of Mr. Frank Tinney is the one which can least easily be carried through single-handed. The man at the piano, the leader of the orchestra, is essential. He is the lifeblood of the entertainment. Without him, nothing can be done. For an instant Sam stood there, gaping blankly. Then the open door of the saloon seemed to beckon an invitation. He made for it, reached it, passed through it. That concluded his efforts in aid of the seamen's orphans and widows. The spell which had lain on the audience broke. This imitation seemed to them to possess in an extraordinary measure the one quality which renders amateur imitations tolerable, that of brevity. They had seen many amateur imitations, but never one as short as this. The saloon echoed with their applause. It brought no balm to Sam Marlowe. He did not hear it. He had fled for refuge to his stateroom and was lying in the lower berth, chewing the pillow, a soul in torment. End of Chapter Six Read by Kara Schellenberg in June 2011 in San Diego, California. Chapter Seven Of The Girl on the Boat by P. G. Woodhouse This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter Seven Sundered Hearts There was a tap at the door. Sam sat up dizzily. He had lost all count of time. Chapter Eight Who's that? I have a note for you, sir. It was the level voice of J.B. Mejley, the steward. The stewards of the White Star line, besides being the civilest and most obliging body of men in the world, all have soft and pleasant voices. A White Star steward, waking you up at six-thirty, to tell you that your bath is ready, when you wanted to sleep on till twelve, is the nearest human approach to the nightingale. Chapter Eight A what? A note, sir. Sam jumped up and switched on the light. He went to the door and took the note from J.B. Mejley, who, his mission accomplished, retired in an orderly manner down the passage. Sam looked at the letter with a thrill. He had never seen the handwriting before, but, with the eye of love, he recognized it. It was just the sort of hand he would have expected Billy to write—round and smooth and flowing, the writing of a warm-hearted girl. He tore open the envelope. Please come up to the top deck. I want to speak to you. Sam could not disguise it from himself that he was a little disappointed. I don't know if you see anything wrong with the letter, but the way Sam looked at it was that, for a first love letter, it might have been longer and perhaps a shade warmer. And, without running any risk of writer's cramp, she might have signed it. However, these were small matters. No doubt the dear girl had been in a hurry and so forth. The important point was that he was going to see her. When a man's afraid, sings the bard, a beautiful maid is a cheering sight to see, and the same truth holds good when a man has made an exhibition of himself at a ship's concert. A woman's gentle sympathy—that was what Samuel Marlowe wanted more than anything else at the moment. That, he felt, was what the doctor ordered. He scrubbed the burnt cork off his face with all possible speed and changed his clothes and made his way to the upper deck. It was like Billy, he felt, to have chosen this spot for their meeting. It would be deserted, and it was hallowed for them both by sacred associations. She was standing at the rail, looking out over the water. The moon was quite full. Out on the horizon to the south, its light shone on the sea, making it look like the silver beach of some distant fairy island. The girl appeared to be wrapped in thought, and it was not till the sharp crack of Sam's head against an overhanging stanchion announced his approach that she turned. Oh, is that you? Yes. You've been a long time. It wasn't an easy job, explained Sam, getting all that burnt cork off. You've no notion how the stuff sticks. You have to use butter. She shuddered. Don't. But I did. You have to with burnt cork.  Her voice rose almost hysterically. I never want to hear the words burnt cork mentioned again as long as I live. I feel exactly the same. Sam moved to her side. Darling, he said in a low voice, it was like you to ask me to meet you here. I know what you were thinking. You thought that I should need sympathy. You wanted to pet me, to smooth my wounded feelings, to hold me in your arms and tell me that, as we loved each other, what did anything else matter? I didn't. You didn't? No, I didn't. Oh, you didn't? I thought you did. He looked at her wistfully. I thought, he said, that possibly you might have wished to comfort me. I have been through a great strain. I have had a shock. And what about me? She demanded passionately. Haven't I had a shock? He melted at once. Have you had a shock, too? Poor little thing. Sit down and tell me all about it. She looked away from him, her face working. Can't you understand what a shock I have had? I thought you were the perfect night. Yes, isn't it? Isn't what? I thought you said it was a perfect night. I said I thought you were the perfect night. Oh, ah. A sailor crossed the deck. A dim figure in the shadows went over to a sort of raised summer house with a brass thing of me in it, fooled about for a moment, and went away again. Sailors earn their money easily. Yes, said Sam, when he had gone. I forget what I was saying. Something about my being the perfect night. Yes, I thought you were. That's good. But you're not. No? No. Oh. Silence fell. Sam was feeling hurt and bewildered. He could not understand her mood. He had come up expecting to be soothed and comforted, and she was like a petulant iceberg. Cynically he recalled some lines of poetry which he had had to write out a hundred times on one occasion at school as a punishment for having introduced a white mouse into chapel.  He had forgotten the exact words, but the gist of it had been that woman, however she might treat a man in times of prosperity, could be relied on to rally round and do the right thing when he was in trouble. How little the poet had known a woman. Why not? he said huffily. She gave a little sob. I put you on a pedestal, and I find you have feet of clay. You have blurred the image which I formed of you.  Well, what can you do when your pianist runs out on you? You could have done something. The words she had spoken only yesterday to Jane Hubbard came back to her. I can't forgive a man for looking ridiculous. Oh, what, what, she cried, induced you to try to give an imitation of Bert Williams. Sam started, stung to the quick. It wasn't Bert Williams, it was Frank Tinney. Well, how was I to know? I did my best, said Sam sullenly. That is the awful thought. I did it for your sake. I know it gives me a horrible sense of guilt. She shuddered again.  Take it! What's this? You bought it for me yesterday at the barber's shop. It is the only present which you have given me. Take it back. I don't want it. I shouldn't know what to do with it. You must take it, she said in a low voice. It is a symbol. A what? A symbol of our broken love. I don't see how you make that out. It's a golly-wog. I can never marry you now. What? Good heavens, don't be absurd. I can't. Oh, go on, have a dash at it, he said encouragingly, though his heart was sinking. She shook her head. No, I couldn't. Oh, hang it all. I couldn't. I'm a very strange girl.  I don't see what right you have to say that, she flared. I don't see what right you have to say you can't marry me and try to load me up with golly-wogs, he retorted, with equal heat.  No, I'm dashed if I can. She looked at him despondently. When I said I would marry you, you were a hero to me. You stood to me for everything that was noble and brave and wonderful.   How could I marry you, haunted by that picture? But, good heavens, you talk as though I made a habit of blacking up. You talk as though you expected me to come to the altar smothered in burnt cork. I shall always think of you as I saw you to-night. She looked at him sadly. There's a bit of black still on your left ear. He tried to take her hand, but she drew it away. He fell back, as if struck. So this is the end, he muttered. Yes, it's partly on your ear and partly on your cheek. So thi