s is the end, he repeated. You had better go below and ask your steward to give you some more butter. He laughed bitterly. Well, I might have expected it. I might have known what would happen. Eustace warned me. Eustace was right. He knows women, as I do now. Women. What mighty ills have not been done by a woman. Who has done that? What mighty ills have not been done by a woman. Who was to betray the what's its name? A woman. Who lost? Lost? Who lost? Who-er? And so on. A woman. So all is over. There is nothing to be said but goodbye? No. Good-bye, then, Miss Bennet. Good-bye, said Billy sadly. I-I'm sorry. Don't mention it. You do understand, don't you? You have made everything perfectly clear. I hope. I hope you won't be unhappy. Unhappy? Sam produced a strangled noise from his larynx, like the cry of a shrimp in pain. Unhappy? Ha-ha! I'm not unhappy. Whatever gave you that idea. I'm smiling. I'm laughing. I feel I've had a merciful escape. Oh, ha-ha! It's very unkind and rude of you to say that. It reminds me of a moving picture I saw in New York. It was called Saved from the Scaffold. Oh! I'm not unhappy. What have I got to be unhappy about? What on earth does any man want to get married for? I don't.  My uncle Charlie used to say, It's better luck to get married than it is to be kicked in the head by a mule. But he was a man who always looked on the bright side. Good-night, Miss Bennet. And good-bye, forever. He turned on his heel and strode across the deck. From a white heaven the moon still shone benignantly down, mocking him. He had spoken bravely. The most capulous critic could not but have admitted that he had made a good exit. But already his heart was aching. As he drew near to his stateroom, he was amazed and disgusted to hear a high tenor voice raised in song proceeding from behind the closed door. I fear na fa in sheening armor, though his lance be sharp and ear keen. But I fear, I fear the glamour, Theru thy deruping lash is seen, I fear, I fear the glamour. Sam flung open the door wrathfully. That Eustis Hignet should still be alive was bad. He had pictured him hurling himself overboard and bobbing about, a pleasing sight in the wake of the vessel. That he should be singing was an outrage. Remorse, Sam felt, should have stricken Eustis Hignet dumb. Instead of which, here he was comporting himself like a blasted linnet. It was all wrong. The man could have no conscience, whatever. Well, he said sternly. So there you are. Eustis Hignet looked up brightly, even beamingly. In the brief interval which had elapsed, since Sam had seen him last, an extraordinary transformation had taken place in this young man. His wan look had disappeared. His eyes were bright. His face wore that beastly, self-satisfied smirk which you see in pictures advertising certain makes of fine mesh underwear. If Eustis Hignet had been a full-page drawing in a magazine with— My dear fellow, I always wear Sigsby's superfine featherweight, printed underneath him. He could not have looked more pleased with himself. Hello, he said. I was wondering where you had got to. Never mind, said Sam coldly, where I had got to. Where did you get to, and why you poor, miserable worm? He went on in a burst of generous indignation. What have you to say for yourself? What do you mean by dashing away like that and killing my little entertainment? Awfully sorry, old man. I hadn't foreseen the cigar. I was bearing up tolerably well till I began to sniff the smoke. Then everything seemed to go black. I don't mean you, of course. You were black already, and I got the feeling that I simply must get on deck and drown myself. Well, why didn't you, demanded Sam with a strong sense of injury? I might have forgiven you, then.  A soft light came into use to his hignet's eyes. I want to tell you all about that, he said. It's the most astonishing story, a miracle, you might almost call it, makes you believe in fate and all that kind of thing. A week ago I was on the subway in New York. He broke off while Sam cursed him, the subway, and the city of New York, in the order named. My dear chap, what is the matter? What is the matter? Ha! Something is the matter, persisted, used to his hignet. I can tell it by your manner. Something has happened to disturb and upset you. I know you so well that I can pierce the mask. What is it? Tell me. Ha! Ha! You surely can't still be brutal, you surely can't still be brooding on that concert business. Why, that's all over.  Can't they? Let me tell you that, as a result of that concert, my engagement is broken off. Use to sprang forward with outstretched hand. Not really. How splendid! Accept my congratulations. This is the finest thing that could possibly have happened. These are not idle words. As one who has been engaged to the girl himself, I speak feelingly. You are well out of it, Sam. Sam thrust aside his hand. Had it been his neck, he might have clutched it eagerly, but he drew the line at shaking hands with use to his hignet. My heart is broken, he said with dignity. That feeling will pass, giving way to one of devout thankfulness. I know, I've been there. After all, Wilhelmina Bennet, what is she? A rag and a bone and a hank of hair. She is nothing of the kind, said Sam, revolted. Pardon me, said Eustice firmly. I speak as an expert. I know her, and I repeat.   You speak of the only girl in the world, said Eustice blithely. If you want to hear about the only girl in the world, I will tell you. A week ago, I was on the subway in New York. I'm going to bed, said Sam brusquely. All right, I'll tell you while you're on dressing. I don't want to listen. A week ago, said Eustice hignet, I will ask you to picture me seated after some difficulty in a carriage in the New York subway. I got into a conversation with a girl with an elephant gun. Sam revised his private combination service in order to include the elephant gun. She was my soulmate, proceeded Eustice with quiet determination. I didn't know it at the time, but she was. She had grave brown eyes, a wonderful personality, and this elephant gun. Did she shoot you with it? Shoot me? What do you mean? Who I know. The girl must have been a fool, said Sam bitterly. The chance of a lifetime, and she missed it. Where are my pajamas? I haven't seen your pajamas.  She told me the correct part of a hippopotamus to aim at, how to make a nourishing soup out of mangoes, and what to do when bitten by a Borneo wire snake. You can't imagine how she soothed my aching heart. My heart, if you recollect, was aching at the moment. Quite unnecessarily, if I had only known, because it was only a couple of days since my engagement to Wilhelmina Bennett had been broken off. Well, we parted at 66th Street, and, strange as it may seem, I forgot all about her. Do it again. Tell it again? Good heavens know, forget all about her again. Nothing, said Eustice, ignorant gravely, could make me do that. Our souls have blended. Our beings have called to one another from their deepest depths, saying—there are your pajamas over in the corner—saying, you are mine. How could I forget her after that? Well, as I was saying, we parted. Little did I know that she was sailing on this very boat. But just now she came to me as I writhed on the deck. Did you writhe, asked Sam, with a flicker of moody interest? I certainly did. That's good. But not for long. That's bad. She came to me and healed me. Sam, that girl is an angel. Switch off the light when you've finished. She seemed to understand without a word how I was feeling. There are some situations which do not need words. She went away and returned with a mixture of some description in a glass. I don't know what it was. It had Worcester sauce in it. She put it to my lips. She made me drink it. She said it was what she always used in Africa for bull calves with the staggers. Well, believe me or believe me not. Are you asleep? Yes. Believe me or believe me not. In under two minutes I was not merely freed from the nausea caused by your cigar. I was smoking myself. I was walking the deck with her without the slightest qualm. I was even able to look over the side from time to time and comment on the beauty of the moon on the water. I have said some mordant things about women since I came on board this boat. I withdraw them unreservedly. They still apply to girls like Wilhelmina Bennett, but I have ceased to include the whole sex in my remarks. Jane Hubbard has restored my faith in woman. Sam! Sam! What? I said that Jane Hubbard had restored my faith in woman. Oh, all right. Eustis Hignett finished undressing and got into bed. With a soft smile on his face he switched off the light. There was a long silence broken only by the distant purring of the engines. At about twelve-thirty a voice came from the lower berth. Sam! What is it now? There is a sweet womanly strength about her, Sam. She was telling me once she killed a panther with a hatpin. Sam groaned and tossed on his mattress. Silence fell again. At least I think it was a panther, said Eustis Hignett at a quarter past one. Either a panther or a puma. End of Chapter 7, read by Kara Schallenberg in June 2011, in San Diego, California. Chapter 8 of The Girl on the Boat by PG Woodhouse. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 8. Sir Malaby offers a suggestion. 1. A week after the liner Atlantic had docked at Southampton, Sam Marlowe might have been observed, and was observed by various of the residents, sitting on a bench on the esplanade of that rising watering-place, Bingley on the Sea, in Sussex. All watering-places on the south coast of England are blots on the landscape, but though I am aware that by saying it I shall offend the civic pride of some of the others, none are so peculiarly foul as Bingley on the Sea. The asphalt on the Bingley Esplanade is several degrees more depressing than the asphalt on other esplanades. The Swiss waiters at the Hotel Magnificent, where Sam was stopping, are in a class of bungling incompetence by themselves, the envy and despair of all the other Swiss waiters at all the other hotels magnificent along the coast. For dreariness of aspect, Bingley on the Sea stands alone. The very waves that break on its shingle seem to creep up the beach reluctantly, as if it revolted them to have to come to such a place. Why, then, was Sam Marlowe visiting this ozone-swept Gehenna? Why, with all the rest of England at his disposal, had he chosen to spend a week at Breezy, Blighted, Bingley? Simply because he had been disappointed in love. Nothing is more curious than the myriad ways in which reaction from an unfortunate love affair manifests itself in various men. No two males behave in the same way under the spur of female fickleness. Arculocom, for instance, according to the Roman writer, Proprio rabbis armavit iambo. It is no good pretending out of politeness that you know what that means, so I will translate. Rabbis, his grouch, armavit, armed, arculocom, arculocus, iambo, with the iambic, Proprio, his own invention. In other words, when the poet Arculocus was handed his hat by the lady of his affections, he consoled himself by going off and writing satirical verse about her in a new meter which he had thought up immediately after leaving the house. That was the way the thing affected him. On the other hand, we read in a recent issue of a London daily paper that John Simmons, thirty-one, a meat salesman, was accused of assaulting an officer while in the discharge of his duty, at the same time using profane language whereby the officer went in fear of his life. Constable Riggs deposed that on the evening of the eleventh instant, while he was on his beat, prisoner accosted him and, after offering to fight him for forpence, drew off his right boot and threw it at his head. Accused, questioned by the magistrate, admitted the charge and expressed regret, pleading that he had had words with his young woman, and it had upset him. Neither of these courses appealed to Samuel Marlowe. He had sought relief by slinking off alone to the Hotel Magnificent at Bingley on the Sea. It was the same spirit which has often moved other men in similar circumstances to go off to the Rockies to shoot grizzlies. To a certain extent the Hotel Magnificent had dulled the pain. At any rate, the service and cooking there had done much to take his mind off it. His heart still ached, but he felt equal to going to London and seeing his father, which of course he ought to have done seven days before. He rose from his bench. He had sat down on it directly after breakfast, and went back to the Hotel to inquire about trains. An hour later he had begun his journey, and two hours after that he was at the door of his father's office. The offices of the old established firm of Marlowe, Thorpe, Prescott, Winslow, and Appleby are in Ridgeways Inn, not far from Fleet Street. The brass plate, let into the woodwork of the door, is misleading.  The name of the firm leads you to suppose that there will be barely standing room in the office. You picture Thorpe jostling you aside as he makes for Prescott to discuss with him the latest case of Demurr and Winslow and Appleby treading on your toes, deep in conversation on Repleven. But these legal firms dwindle.  The only surviving member of the firm of Marlowe, Thorpe, what I said before, was, at the time with which this story deals, Sir Malaby Marlowe, son of the original founder of the firm, and father of the celebrated Blackface comedian Samuel of that ilk, and the outer office where callers were received and parked till Sir Malaby could find time for them, was occupied by a single clerk. When Sam opened the door, this clerk, John Peters by name, was seated on a high stool, holding in one hand a half-eaten sausage, in the other an extraordinarily large and powerful-looking revolver. At the sight of Sam he laid down both engines of destruction and beamed. He was not a particularly successful beamer, being hampered by a cast in one eye, which gave him a truculent and sinister look, but those who knew him knew that he had a heart of gold and were not intimidated by his repellent face. Between Sam and himself there had always existed terms of great cordiality, starting from the time when the former was a small boy, and it had been John Peters' mission to take him now to the zoo, now to the train back to school. Why, Mr. Samuel? Hello, Peters. We were expecting you back a week ago. Oh, I had something to see to before I came to town, said Sam carelessly. So you got back safe, said John Peters. Safe? Why, of course. Peters shook his head. I confess that when there was this delay in your coming here, I sometimes feared something might have happened to you. I recall mentioning it to the young lady who recently did me the honor to promise to become my wife. Ocean liners aren't often wrecked nowadays. I was thinking more of the brawls on shore, America's a dangerous country, but perhaps you were not in touch with the underworld. I don't think I was. Ah, said John Peters significantly. He took up the revolver, gave it a fond and almost paternal look, and replaced it on the desk. What on earth are you doing with that thing? asked Sam. Mr. Peters lowered his voice. I'm going to America myself in a few days' time, Mr. Samuel. It's my annual holiday, and the Governor's sending me over with papers in connection with the people versus Schultz and Bowen. It's a big case over there. A client of ours is mixed up in it, an American gentleman. I am to take these important papers to his legal representative in New York, so I thought it best to be prepared. The first smile that he had permitted himself for nearly two weeks flitted across Sam's face. What on earth sort of place do you think New York is? he asked. It's safer than London. Ah, but what about the underworld? I've seen these American films that they send over here, Mr. Samuel. Did you ever see Wolves of the Bowery? There was a man in that, in just my position, carrying important papers, and what they didn't try to do to him. No, I'm taking no chances, Mr. Samuel. I should have said you were lugging that thing about with you. Mr. Peters seemed wounded. Oh, I understand the mechanism perfectly, and I am becoming a very fair shot. I take my little bite of food in here early, and go and practice at the Rupert Street Rifle Range during my lunch hour. You'd be surprised how quickly one picks it up. When I get home of a night, I try how quickly I can draw. You have to draw like a flat, but you don't have to worry about it. Just to draw like a flash of lightning, Mr. Samuel. If you'd ever seen a film called Two Gun Thomas, you'd realize that. You haven't time to wait loitering about. Mr. Peters picked up a speaking tube and blew down it. Mr. Samuel, to see you, Sir Maliby. Yes, sir, very good. Will you go right in, Mr. Samuel? Sam proceeded to the inner office and found his father dictating into the attentive ear of Miss Millican, his elderly and respectable stenographer, replies to his morning mail.  His morning coat had been cut by London's best tailor, and his trousers perfectly creased by a sedulous valet. A pink carnation in his button-hole matched his healthy complexion. His golf-handicap was twelve. His sister, Mrs. Horace Hignet, considered him worldly. Dear sirs, we are in receipt of your favour, and in reply beg to stay that nothing will induce us— Will induce us? Where did I put that letter? Nothing will induce us. Oh, tell him to go to Blaise's, Miss Millican. Very well, Sir Maliby. That's that. Ready? Miss Sirs, Brigny, Ghoul, and Butterworth. What infernal names these people have. Sirs, on behalf of our client— Oh, hello, Sam. Good morning, Father. Take a seat. I'm busy, but I'll be finished in a moment. Where was I, Miss Millican? On behalf of our client? Oh, yes. On behalf of our client, Mr. Wibblesly Eggshaw. Where are these people get their names? I'm hanged, if I know.  You may not know it, but in the nineties, when you were born, children were frequently christened Hyacinth. Well, I saved you from that. His attention now diverted to his son. Sir Maliby seemed to remember that the letter had just returned from a long journey, and that he had not seen him for many weeks. He inspected him with interest. Very glad you're back, Sam. So you didn't win? No, I got beaten in the semifinals. American amateurs are a very hot lot, the best ones. I suppose you were weak on the greens. I warned you about that. You'll have to rub up your putting before next year. At the idea that any such mundane pursuit as practicing putting could appeal to his broken spirit now, Sam uttered a bitter laugh. It was as if Dante had recommended some lost soul in the inferno to occupy his mind by knitting jumpers. Well, you seem to be in great spirits, said Sir Maliby approvingly. It's pleasant to hear your merry laugh again, isn't it, Miss Millican? Extremely exhilarating, agreed the stenographer, adjusting her spectacles and smiling at Sam, for whom there was a soft spot in her heart. A sense of the futility of life oppressed Sam. As he gazed in the glass that morning, he had thought, not without a certain gloomy satisfaction, how remarkably pale and drawn his face looked. And these people seemed to imagine that he was in the highest spirits. His laughter, which had sounded to him like the wailing of a demon, struck Miss Millican as exhilarating. On behalf of our client, Mr. Wibblesley Eggshaw, said Sir Maliby, swooping back to duty once more. We beg to state that we are prepared to accept service. What time did you dock this morning? I landed nearly a week ago. A week ago? Then what the deuce have you been doing with yourself? Why haven't I seen you? I've been down at Bingley on the sea. Bingley, what on earth were you doing at that Godforsaken place? Wrestling with myself, said Sam, with simple dignity. Sir Maliby's agile mind had leaped back to the letter which he was answering. We should be glad to meet you. Wrestling, eh? Well, I like a boy to be fond of manly sports. Still, life isn't all athletics. Don't forget that. Life is real. Life is—how does it go, Miss Millican?  Her invariable habit, when called upon to recite. Life is real. Life is earnest. And the grave is not its goal. Dust thou art to dust returnest was not spoken of the soul. Art is long, and time is fleeting, and our hearts, though stout and brave, still like muffled drums are beating funeral marches to the grave. Lives of great men all remind us we can make our lives sublime, and departing leave behind us footsteps on the sands of time. Let us then— said Miss Millican respectfully—be up and doing. All right, all right, all right, said Sir Malaby. I don't want it all. Life is real. Life is earnest, Sam. I want to speak to you about that when I finished answering these letters. Where was I? We should be glad to meet you at any time, if you will make an appointment. Bingley on the sea—good heavens, why Bingley on the sea? Why not Margate while you were about it? Margate is too bracing. I did not wish to be braced. Bingley suited my mood. It was gray and dark, and it rained all the time, and the seas slunk about in the distance like some baffled beast. He stopped, becoming aware that his father was not listening. Sir Malaby's attention had returned to the letter. Oh, what's the good of answering this dashed thing at all, said Sir Malaby. Brigny, ghoul, and Butterworth know perfectly well that they've got us in a cleft stick. Butterworth knows it better than ghoul, and Brigny knows it better than Butterworth. This young fool egg-shaw, Sam, admits that he wrote the girl twenty-three letters, twelve of them in verse, and twenty-one specifically asking her to marry him, and he comes to me and expects me to get him out of it. The girl is suing him for ten thousand. How like a woman! Miss Millican bridled reproachfully at this slur on her sex. Sir Malaby took no notice of it, whatever. If you will make an appointment when we can discuss the matter without prejudice, get those typed, Miss Millican. Have a cigar, Sam. Miss Millican tell Peters as you go out that I am occupied with a conference, and can see nobody for half an hour. When Miss Millican had withdrawn, Sir Malaby occupied ten seconds of the period which he had set aside for communion with his son, in staring silently at him. I'm glad you're back, Sam, he said at length. I want to have a talk with you.  I've been thinking about you while you were in America, and I've come to the conclusion that I've been letting you drift along. Very bad for a young man. You're getting on. I don't say you're senile, but you're not twenty-one any longer, and at your age I was working like a beaver. You've got to remember that life is— dash it, I've forgotten it again. He broke off, and puffed vigorously into the speaking tube. Miss Millican, kindly repeat what you were saying just now about life. Yes, yes, that's enough. He put down the instrument. Yes, life is real, life is earnest, he said, gazing at Sam seriously. And the grave is not our goal. Lives of great men all remind us we can make our lives sublime. In fact, it's time you took your coat off and started work. I'm quite ready, Father. You didn't hear what I said, exclaimed Sir Malaby, with a look of surprise. I said it was time you began work. And I said I was quite ready. Bless my soul, you've changed your view as a trifle since I saw you last. I have changed them all together. Long hours of brooding among the red plush setees in the lounge of the hotel magnificent at Bingley on the Sea had brought about this strange, even morbid, attitude of mind in Samuel Marlowe. Work, he had decided, was the only medicine for his sick soul. Here he felt, in this quiet office, far from the tumult and noise of the world, in a haven of torts and misdemeanors, and Vic won cap threes, and all the rest of it, he might find peace. At any rate, it was worth taking a stab at it. Your trip has done you good, said Sir Malaby approvingly. The sea air has given you some sense. I'm glad of it. It makes it easier for me to say something else that I've had on my mind for a good while. Sam, it's time you got married. Sam barked bitterly. His father looked at him with concern. Swallow some, smoke the wrong way. I was laughing, explained Sam with dignity. Sir Malaby shook his head. I don't want to discourage your high spirits, but I must ask you to approach this matter seriously. Marriage would do you a world of good, Sam. It would brace you up. You really ought to consider the idea. I was two years younger than you are when I married your poor mother, and it was the making of me. A wife might make something of you. Impossible. I don't see why she shouldn't. There's lots of good in you, my boy, though you may not think so. When I said it was impossible, said Sam coldly, I was referring to the impossibility of the possibility— I mean, that it was impossible, that I could possibly— In other words, Father, I can never marry. My heart is dead. Your what? My heart.  There's nothing wrong with your heart. All our family have had hearts like steam engines. Probably who have been feeling a sort of burning. Knock off cigars, and that will soon stop. You don't understand me. I mean that a woman has treated me in a way that has finished her whole sex, as far as I am concerned. For me, women do not exist. You didn't tell me about this, said Sir Malaby, interested. When did this happen? Did she jilt you? Yes. In America, was it? On the boat. Sir Malaby chuckled heartily. My dear boy, you don't mean to tell me that you're taking a shipboard flirtation seriously. Why, you're expected to fall in love with a different girl every time you go on a voyage. You'll get over this in a week. You'd have got over it by now if you hadn't gone and buried yourself in a depressing place like Bingley on the Sea. The whistle of the speaking tube blew. Sir Malaby put the instrument to his ear. All right. He turned to Sam. I shall have to send you away now, Sam. Man waiting to see me. Goodbye. By the way, are you doing anything tonight? No. Not got a wrestling match on with yourself or anything like that? Welcome to dinner at the house. 7.30. Don't be late. Sam went out. As he passed through the outer office, Miss Millican intercepted him. Oh, Mr. Sam. Yes? Excuse me, but will you be seeing Sir Malaby again today? I'm dining with him tonight. Then would you—I don't like to disturb him now when he is busy—would you mind telling him that I inadvertently omitted a stanza? It runs, said Miss Millican, closing her eyes. Trust no future, however pleasant, let the dead past bury its dead. Act, act in the living present, heart within and God or head. Thank you so much. Good afternoon. 2. Sam, reaching Brutton Street at a quarter past seven, was informed by the butler who admitted him that his father was dressing and would be down in a few minutes. The butler, an old retainer of the Marlowe family who, if he had not actually dandled Sam on his knees when an infant had known him as a small boy, was delighted to see him again. Missed you very much, Sir Samuel. We all have, he said affectionately, as he proceeded him to the drawing-room. Yes? said Sam absently. Very much indeed, Sir. I happen to remark only the other day that the place didn't seem the same without your happy laugh. It's good to see you back once more, looking so well and merry. Sam stalked into the drawing-room with the feeling that comes to all of us from time to time that it is hopeless to struggle. The whole damned circle of his acquaintance seemed to have made up their minds that he had not a care in the world, so what was the use? He lowered himself into a deep arm chair and lit a cigarette. Presently the butler reappeared with a cocktail on a tray. Sam drained it, and scarcely had the door closed behind the old retainer when an abrupt change came over the whole outlook. It was as if he had been a Pianola and somebody had inserted a new record. Looking well and happy. He blew a smoke ring. Well, if it came to that, why not? Why shouldn't he look well and happy? What had he got to worry about? He was a young man, fit and strong, in the spring tide of life, just about to plunge into an absorbing business. Why should he brood over a sentimental episode which had ended a little unfortunately? He would never see the girl again. If anything in this world was certain, that was. She would go her way and he his. Samuel Marlowe rose from his chair a new man to greet his father, who came in at that moment fingering a snowy white tie. Sam started at his parents' splendor in some consternation. Great Scott, father, are you expecting a lot of people? I thought we were dining alone. That's all right, my boy. A dinner jacket is perfectly in order.  Six in all. You and I, a friend of mine and his daughter, a friend of my friend's friend and my friend's friend's son. Surely that's more than six. No. It sounded more. Six said sermality firmly. He raised a shapely hand with the fingers outspread. Count them for yourself. He twiddled his thumb. Number one, Bennett. Who? cried Sam. Bennett, Rufus Bennett. He's an American over here for the summer. Haven't I ever mentioned his name to you? He's a great fellow, always thinking he's at death's door, but keeps up a fine appetite. I've been his legal representative in London for years. Then— Sir Malaby twiddled his first finger— there's his daughter, Willamina, who has just arrived in England. A look of enthusiasm came into Sir Malaby's face. Sam, my boy, I don't intend to say a word about Miss Willamina Bennett, because I think there's nothing more prejudicial than singing a person's praises in advance. I merely remark that I fancy you will appreciate her. I've only met her once, and then only for a few minutes, but what I say is, if there's a girl living who's likely to make you forget whatever fool of a woman you may be fancying yourself in love with at the moment, that girl is Willamina Bennett. The others are Bennett's friend, Henry Mortimer, also an American—a big lawyer, I believe, on the other side— and his son, Bream. I haven't met either of them. They ought to be here any moment now. He looked at his watch. Ah! I think that was the front door. Yes, I can hear them on the stairs. End of Chapter 8. Read by Kara Schellenberg in June 2011, in San Diego, California. Chapter 9 of The Girl on the Boat by P. G. Woodhouse. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 9. Rough Work at a Dinner Table. After the first shock of astonishment, Sam Marlowe had listened to his father's harangue with a growing indignation which, towards the end of the speech, had assumed proportions of a cold fury. If there is one thing the witch your high-spirited young man resents, it is being the toy of fate. He chafes at the idea that fate had got it all mapped out for him. Fate, thought Sam, had constructed a cheap, mushy, sentimental, five-real film scenario, and without consulting him had had the cool cheek to cast him for one of the puppets. He seemed to see Fate as a thin female, with a soppy expression and posnay, sniffing a little as she worked the thing out. He could picture her glutinous satisfaction as she reread her scenario and gloated over its surefire qualities. There was not a flaw in the construction. It started off splendidly, with a romantic meaning, had him guessing halfway through when the hero and hero inquirled and parted, apparently forever, and now the stage was all set for the reconciliation and the slow fade-out on the embrace. To bring this last scene about, Fate had had to permit herself a slight coincidence, but she did not jib at that. What we call coincidences are merely the occasions when Fate gets stuck in a plot and has to invent the next situation in a hurry. Sam Marlowe felt selky and defiant. This girl had treated him shamefully, and he wanted to have nothing more to do with her. If he had had his wish, he would never have met her again. Fate, in her interfering way, had forced this meeting on him, and was now complacently looking to him to behave in a suitable manner. Well, he would show her. In a few seconds now Billy and he would be meeting. He would be distant and polite. He would be cold and aloof. He would chill her to the bone and rip a hole in the scenario six feet wide. The door opened, and the room became full of Bennets and Mortimer's. Two. Billy, looking as Marlowe could not but admit, particularly pretty, headed the procession. Following her came a large red-faced man whose buttons seemed to creak beneath the strain of their duties. After him trotted a small, thin, pale, semi-balled individual who wore glasses and carried his nose raised and puckered as though some faintly unpleasant smell were troubling his nostrils. The fourth member of the party was dear old Bream. There was a confused noise of mutual greetings and introductions, and then Bream got a good sight of Sam and napped forward with his right wing outstretched. Why, hello! said Bream. How are you, Mortimer? said Sam coldly. What, do you know my son? exclaimed Sir Malaby. Came over in the boat together, said Bream. Capital, said Sir Malaby. Old friends, eh? Miss Bennet, he turned to Billy, who had been staring wide-eyed at her late fiance. Let me present my son, Sam. Sam, this is Miss Bennet. How do you do? said Sam. How do you do? said Billy. Bennet, you've never met my son, I think. Mr. Bennet peered at Sam with protruding eyes, which gave him the appearance of a rather unusually stout prawn. How are you, he asked, with such intensity that Sam unconsciously found himself replying to a question which does not as a rule call for any answer. Very well, thanks. Mr. Bennet shook his head moodily. You are lucky to be able to say so. Very few of us can assert as much. I can truthfully say that in the last fifteen years I have not known what it is to enjoy sound health for a single day. Marlowe, he proceeded, swinging ponderously round on Sir Malaby, like a liner turning in the river. I assure you that at twenty-five minutes past four this afternoon I was very nearly convinced that I should have to call you up on the phone and cancel this dinner engagement. When I took my temperature at twenty minutes to six, at this point the butler appeared at the door announcing that dinner was served. Sir Malaby Marlowe's dinner table, which, like most of the furniture in the house, had belonged to his deceased father, and had been built at a period when people liked things big and solid, was a good deal too spacious to be really ideal for a small party. A white sea of linen separated each diner from the diner opposite and created a forced intimacy with the person seated next to him. Billy Bennett and Sam Marlowe, as a consequence, found themselves, if not exactly in a solitude of their own, at least sufficiently cut off from their kind, to make silence between them impossible. Westward, Mr. Mortimer had engaged Sir Malaby in a discussion on the recent case of Uzali versus Uzali, Fig, Mountjoy, Mosby Smith, and others, which, though too complicated to explain here, presented points of considerable interest to the legal mind. To the east Mr. Bennett was relating to Bream the more striking of his recent symptoms. Billy felt constrained to make at least an attempt at conversation. How strange meeting you here, she said. Sam, who had been crumbling bread in an easy and debonair manner, looked up and met her eye. Its expression was one of cheerful friendliness. He could not see his own eye, but he imagined and hoped that it was cold and forbidding, like the surface of some bottomless mountain tarn. I beg your pardon. I said, how strange meeting you here, I never dreamed Sir Malaby was your father. I knew it all along, said Sam, and there was an interval caused by the maid insinuating herself between them and collecting his soup plate. He sipped sherry and felt a somber self-satisfaction. He had, he considered, given the conversation the right tone from the start. Cool and distant. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Billy bite her lip. He turned to her again. Now that he had definitely established the fact that he and she were strangers, meeting by chance at a dinner party, he was in a position to go on talking. And how do you like England, Miss Bennett? Billy's eye had lost its cheerful friendliness, a somewhat feline expression had taken its place. Pretty well, she replied. You don't like it? Well, the way I look at it is this. It's no use grumbling. One has got to realize that in England one is in a savage country, and one should simply be thankful one isn't eaten by the natives. What makes you call England a savage country? demanded Sam, a staunch patriot, deeply stung. What would you call a country where you can't get ice, central heating, corn on the cob, or bathrooms? My father and Mr. Mortimer have just taken a house down on the coast, and there's just one niggly little bathroom in the place. Is that your only reason for condemning England? Oh no, it has other drawbacks. Such as? Well, Englishmen, for instance, young Englishmen in particular, English young men are awful, idle, rude, conceited, and ridiculous. Marlowe refused hawk with a bitter intensity, which nearly startled the old retainer, who had just offered it to him, into dropping the decanter. How many English young men have you met? Billy met his eye squarely and steadily. Well, now that I come to think of it, not many. In fact, very few. As a matter of fact, only— Only? Well, very few, said Billy. Yes, she said, meditatively. I suppose I really have been rather unjust. I should not have condemned a class, simply because—I mean, I suppose there are young Englishmen who are not rude and ridiculous. I suppose there are American girls who have hearts. Oh, plenty. I'll believe that, when I meet one. Sam paused. Cold aloofness was all very well, but this conversation was developing into a vulgar brawl. The ghosts of dead and gone Marlowe's, all noted for their courtesy to the sex, seemed to stand beside his chair, eyeing him reprovingly. His work, they seemed to whisper, was becoming raw.  Are you making a long stay in London, Miss Bennet? No, not long. We are going down to the country almost immediately. I told you my father and Mr. Mortimer had taken a house there. You will enjoy that. I'm sure I shall. Mr. Mortimer's son, Bream, will be there. That will be nice. Why? said Sam, backsliding. There was a pause. He isn't rude and ridiculous, eh? said Sam gruffly. Oh no, his manners are perfect, and he has such a natural dignity, she went on, looking affectionately across the table at the air of the Mortimer's, who, finding Mr. Bennet's medical confidence as a trifle fatiguing, was yawning broadly and absently balancing his wine-glass on a fork. Besides, said Billy in a soft and dreamy voice, we are engaged to be married. Three. Sam didn't care, of course. We, who have had the privilege of a glimpse into his iron soul, know that. He was not in the least upset by the news. Just surprised. He happened to be raising his glass at the moment, and he registered a certain amount of restrained emotion by snapping the stem in half and shooting the contents over the tablecloth. But that was all. Good heavens, Sam! ejaculated sermality aghast. His wine-glasses were an old and valued set. Sam blushed as red as the stain on the cloth. Awfully sorry, Father! Don't know how it happened. Something must have given you a shock, suggested Billy kindly. The old retainer rallied round with napkins, and sermality, who was just about to dismiss the affair with the polished ease of a good host, suddenly became aware of the activities of Bream. That young man, on whose dreamy calm the accident had made no impression whatever, had successfully established the equilibrium of the glass and the fork, and was now cautiously inserting beneath the latter a section of a roll, the hole forming a charming picture in still life. If that glass is in your way, said sermality, as soon as he had hitched up his drooping jaw sufficiently to enable him to speak. He was beginning to feel that he would be lucky if he came out of this dinner-party with a mere remnant of his precious set. Oh, sermality, said Billy, casting an adoring glance at the juggler. You needn't be afraid that Bream will drop it. He isn't clumsy. He is wonderful at that sort of thing, simply wonderful. I think it's so splendid, said Billy, when men can do things like that. I'm always trying to get Bream to do some of his tricks for people, but he's so modest he won't. Refreshingly different, sermality considered, from the average drawing-room entertainer. Yes, said Billy emphatically. I think the most terrible thing in the world is a man who tries to entertain when he can't. Did I tell you about the man on board ship-father at the ship's concert? Oh, it was the most awful thing you ever saw. Everybody was talking about it. She beamed round the table, and there was a note of fresh girlish gaiety in her voice. This man got up to do an imitation of somebody, nobody knows to this day who it was meant to be, and he came into the saloon, and directly he saw the audience he got stage fright. He just stood there gurgling and not saying a word, and then suddenly his nerve failed him altogether, and he turned and tore out of the room like a rabbit. He absolutely ran, and he hadn't said a word.  The anecdote went well. Of course there will always be a small minority in any audience, which does not appreciate a funny story, and there was one in the present case. But the bulk of the company roared with laughter. Do you mean, cried Sir Malaby, choking?  Well, he made a sort of yammering noise, said Billy, but that only made him look sillier. Deused good, chuckled Sir Malaby. Funniest thing I ever heard in my life, gurgled Mr. Bennett, swallowing a digestive capsule. May have been half-witted, suggested Mr. Mortimer. Sam leaned across the table with a stern, set face. He meant to change the conversation if he had to do it with a crowbar. I hear you have taken a house in the country, Mr. Mortimer, he said. Yes, said Mr. Mortimer. He turned to Sir Malaby. We have at last succeeded in persuading your sister, Mrs. Hignet, to let us rent her house for the summer. Sir Malaby gasped. Windles? You don't mean to tell me that my sister has let you have windles? Mr. Mortimer nodded triumphantly. Yes, I had completely resigned myself to the prospect of spending the summer in some other house when yesterday I happened to run into your nephew, young Eustace Hignet, on the street, and he said he was just coming round to see me about that very thing. To cut a long story short, he said that it would be all right and that we could have the house. Mr. Mortimer took a sip of burgundy. He's a curious boy, young Hignet, very nervous in his manner. Chronic dyspepsia, said Mr. Bennett authoritatively. I can tell it at a glance. Is windles a very lovely place, Sir Malaby? asked Billy. Charming, quite charming. Not large, of course, as country houses go. Not a castle, I mean, with hundreds of acres of parkland, but nice and compact and comfortable and very picturesque. We do not require a large place, said Mr. Mortimer.  Don't forget, said Billy, that you have promised to invite Jane Hubbard down there. Ah yes, Willamena's friend, Miss Hubbard, she is coming. That will be all, except young Hignet himself. Hignet, cried Mr. Bennett. Mr. Hignet exclaimed Billy. There was an almost imperceptible pause before Mr. Mortimer spoke again, and for an instant the demon of embarrassment hovered, unseen but present, above the dinner table. Mr. Bennett looked sternly at Billy. Billy turned a shade pinker and gazed at the tablecloth. Bream started nervously. Even Mr. Mortimer seemed robbed for a moment of his legal calm. I forgot to tell you that, he said. Yes, one of the stipulations, to which I personally was perfectly willing to agree, was that use as Hignet was to remain on the premises during our tenancy. Such a clause in the agreement was, I am quite aware, unusual, and had the circumstances been other than they were, I would have had a good deal to say about it. But we wanted the place, and we couldn't get it, except by agreeing, so I agreed. I am sure you will think that I acted rightly, Bennett, considering the peculiar circumstances. Well, said Mr. Bennett reluctantly. I certainly did want that house. And we couldn't have had it otherwise, said Mr. Mortimer. So that is all there is to it. Well, it need make no difference to you, said Sir Malaby. I am sure you will find my nephew Eustace most unobtrusive. He may even be an entertaining companion. I believe he has a nice singing voice. With that, and the juggling of our friend here, and my sister's late husband's orchestrion, you will have no difficulty in amusing yourselves during the evenings. You remember the orchestrion, Sam? said Sir Malaby, on whom his son's silence had been weighing rather heavily for some time. Yes, said Sam. And returned to the silence once more. The late Mr. Hignet had it put in. He was very fond of music. It's a thing you turn on by pressing a button in the wall, continued Sir Malaby. How you stop it, I don't know. When I was down there last, it never seemed to stop. You mustn't miss the orchestrion. I certainly shall, said Mr. Bennett decidedly. Music of that description happens to be the one thing which jars unendurably on my nerves. My nervous system is thoroughly out of tune. So is the orchestrion, said Sir Malaby. I remember once when I was down there. I hope you will come down there again, Sir Malaby, said Mr. Mortimer, during our occupancy of the house. And you too, he said, addressing Sam. I am afraid, said Sam frigidly, that my time will be very much occupied for the next few months. Thank you very much, he added, after a moment's pause. Sam's going to work, said Sir Malaby. Yes, said Sam, with dark determination. Work is the only thing in life that matters. Oh come, Sam, said Sir Malaby. At your age I used to think love was fairly important, too. Love, said Sam. He jabbed at his souffle with a spoon. You could see by the scornful way he did it that he did not think much of love. Four. Sir Malaby, the last cigar of the night between his lips, broke a silence which had lasted a quarter of an hour. The guests had gone, and he and Sam were alone together. Sam, he said, do you know what I think? No, said Sam. Sir Malaby removed his cigar and spoke impressively. I've been turning the whole thing over in my mind, and the conclusion I have come to is that there is more in this Wendell's business than meets the eye.  She is a monomaniac on that subject. If you want to know my opinion, I am quite certain that your cousin Eustace has let the place to these people without her knowledge and intends to pocket the check and not say a word about it. What do you think? A. said Sam absently. I said, what do you think? What do I think about what? About Eustace Hignet and Wendell's. What about them? Sir Malaby regarded him disapprovingly. I'm hanged if I know what's the matter with you tonight, Sam. You seem to have unhitched your brain and left it in the umbrella stand. You hadn't a word to say for yourself all through dinner. You might have been a trappist monk. And with that delightful girl Miss Bennet there, too, she must have thought you infernally dull. I'm sorry. It's no good being sorry now, the mischief's done.  Do you realize, said Sir Malaby warmly, that when she told that extremely funny story about the man who made such a fool of himself on board the ship, you were the only person at the table who was not amused? She must have thought you had no sense of humor. Sam rose. I think I'll be going, he said. Good night. A man can bear just so much. End of Chapter 9, read by Kara Schallenberg in June 2011, in San Diego, California. Chapter 10 of The Girl on the Boat by P. G. Woodhouse. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 10. Trouble at Windles 1. Mr. Rufus Bennet stood at the window of the drawing room of Windles, looking out. From where he stood he could see all those natural and artificial charms, which had made the play so desirable to him when he first beheld them. Immediately below, flower beds, bright with assorted blooms, pressed against the ivied stone wall of the house. Beyond, separated from these by a gravel pathway, a smooth lawn, whose green and silky turf rivaled the lawns of Oxford colleges, stretched to a picturesque shrubbery, not so dense as to withhold altogether from the eye of the observer an occasional silvery glimpse of the lake that lay beyond it. To the left, through noble trees, appeared a white suggestion of old stable-yards, while to the right, bordering on the drive as it swept round to a distant gate, nothing less than a fragment of a ruined castle reared itself against a background of furs. It had been this sensational fragment of old England, which had definitely captured Mr. Bennet on his first visit to the place. He could not have believed that the time would ever come when he could gaze on it without any lightning of the spirits. The explanation of his gloom was simple. In addition to looking at the flower beds, the lawn, the shrubbery, the stable-yard, and the castle, Mr. Bennet was also looking at the fifth heavy shower that had fallen since breakfast. This was the third afternoon of his tenancy. The first day it had rained all the time. The second day it had rained from eight till twelve-fifteen, from twelve-thirty till four, and from five till eleven. And on this, the third day, there had been no intermission longer than ten minutes. It was a trying summer. Even the writers in the daily papers seemed mildly surprised, and claimed that England had seen finer Julys. Mr. Bennet, who had lived his life in a country of warmth and sunshine, the thing affected in much the same way as the early days of the flood must have affected Noah. A first startled resentment had given place to a despair too militant to be called resignation. And with the despair had come a strong distaste for his fellow human beings, notably and in particular his old friend Mr. Mortimer, who at this moment broke impatiently in on his meditations. Come along, Bennet. It's your deal. It's no good looking at the rain. Looking at it won't stop it. Mr. Mortimer's nerves also had become a little frayed by the weather. Mr. Bennet returned heavily to the table, where, with Mr. Mortimer as partner, he was playing one more interminable rubber of bridge against Bream and Billy. He was sick of bridge, but there was nothing else to do. Mr. Bennet sat down with a grunt and started to deal. Halfway through the operation, the sound of rather sturtorous breathing began to proceed from beneath the table. Mr. Bennet glanced agitatedly down and curled his legs round his chair. I have fourteen cards, said Mr. Mortimer. That's the third time you've missed out. I don't care how many cards you've got, said Mr. Bennet, with heat.  He looked malignantly at a fine bulldog, which now emerged from its cover and, sitting down, beamed at the company. He was a sweet-tempered dog, handicapped by the outward appearance of a canine plug ugly. Murder seemed the mildest of the desires that lay behind that rugged countenance. As a matter of fact, what he wanted was cake. His name was Smith, and Mr. Mortimer had bought him just before leaving London to serve the establishment as a watchdog.  You keep saying that, replied Mr. Bennet petishly. How do you know? He's a dangerous beast, and if I had had any notion that you were buying him, I would have had something to say about it. Whatever you might have said would have made no difference. I am within my legal rights in purchasing a dog. You have a dog? At least Wilhelmina has. Yes, and Pinkyboodles gets on splendidly with Smith, said Billy. I've seen them playing together. Mr. Bennet subsided. He was feeling thoroughly misanthropic. He disliked everybody, with perhaps the exception of Billy, for whom a faint paternal fondness still lingered. He disliked Mr. Mortimer. He disliked Bream, and regretted that Billy had become engaged to him, though for years such an engagement had been his dearest desire. He disliked Jane Hubbard, now out walking in the rain with Eustis Hignett. And he disliked Eustis. Eustis, he told himself, he disliked rather more than any of the others. He resented the young man's presence in the house, and he resented the fact that, being in the house, he should go about pale and haggard as though he were sickening for something. Mr. Bennet had the most violent objection to associating with people who looked as though they were sickening for something. He got up and went to the window. The rain leaped at the glass like a frolicking puppy. It seemed to want to get inside and play with Mr. Bennet. 2. Mr. Bennet slept late on the following morning. He looked at his watch on the dressing-table when he got up, and found that it was past ten. Taking a second to assure himself that he had really slumbered to this unusual hour, he suddenly became aware of something bright and yellow resting beside the watch, and paused, transfixed, like Robinson Crusoe staring at the footprint in the sand. If he had not been in England, he would have said that it was a patch of sunshine. Mr. Bennet stared at the yellow blob with the wistful mistrust of a traveller in a desert who has been taken in once or twice by mirages. It was not till he had pulled up the blind and was looking out on a garden full of brightness and warmth and singing birds that he definitely permitted himself to accept the situation. It was a superb morning.  This was Webster, Mr. Bennet's valet. He carried in one hand a small mug of hot water, reverently, as if it were a present of jewellery. Good morning, sir. Morning, Webster, said Mr. Bennet, rather late, eh? It is, replied Webster precisely, a little late, sir. I would have awakened you at the customary hour, but it was Miss Bennet's opinion that a rest would do you good. Mr. Bennet's sense of well-being deepened. What more could a man want in this world than fine weather and a dutiful daughter? She did, eh? Yes, sir. She desired me to inform you that, having already breakfasted, she proposed to drive Mr. Mortimer and Mr. Bream Mortimer into Southampton in the car. Mr. Mortimer, Sr., wished to buy a Panama hat. A Panama hat, exclaimed Mr. Bennet. A Panama hat, sir. Mr. Bennet's feeling of satisfaction grew still greater. It was a fine day. He had a dutiful daughter, and he was going to see Henry Mortimer in a Panama hat. Providence was spoiling him. The valet withdrew like a duke leaving the royal presence, not actually walking backwards, but giving the impression of doing so, and Mr. Bennet, having decanted the mug of water into the basin, began to shave himself. Having finished shaving, he opened the drawer in the bureau where lay his white flannel trousers. Here at last was a day worthy of them. He drew them out, and as he did so something gleamed pinkly up at him from a corner of the drawer. His salmon-coloured bathing suit. Mr. Bennet started. He had not contemplated such a thing, but, after all, why not? There was the lake, shining through the trees, a mere fifty yards away. What could be more refreshing? He shed his pajamas and climbed into the bathing suit, and presently, looking like the sun on a foggy day, he emerged from the house and picked his way with gingerly steps across the smooth surface of the lawn. At this moment, from behind a bush where he had been thriftily burying a yesterday's bone, Smith the bulldog waddled out onto the lawn. He drank in the exhilarating air through an upturned nose, which his recent excavations had rendered somewhat muddy. Then he observed Mr. Bennet, and moved gladly towards him. He did not recognise Mr. Bennet, for he remembered his friends principally by their respective bouquets, so he cantered silently across the turf to take a sniff at him. He was half way across the lawn when some of the mud which he had inhaled when burying the bone tickled his lungs, and he paused to cough. Mr. Bennet whirled round, and then with a sharp exclamation picked up his pink feet from the velvet turf, and began to run. Smith, after a momentary pause of surprise, lumbered after him, wheezing contentedly. This man, he felt, was evidently one of the right sort, a merry playfellow. Mr. Bennet continued to run, but already he had begun to pant and falter, when he perceived looming upon his left the ruins of that ancient castle which had so attracted him on his first visit. On that occasion it had made merely an aesthetic appeal to Mr. Bennet. Now he saw in a flash that its practical merits also were of a sterling order. He swerved sharply, took the base of the edifice in his stride, clutched at a jutting stone, flung his foot at another, and, just as his pursuer arrived and sat panting below, pulled himself on to a ledge, where he sat with his feet hanging well out of reach. The bulldog Smith gazed up at him expectantly. The game was a new one to Smith, but it seemed to have possibilities. He was a dog who was always perfectly willing to try anything once. Mr. Bennet now began to address himself in earnest to the task of calling for assistance. His physical discomfort was acute. Insects, some winged, some without wings, but, through nature's wonderful law of compensation, equipped with a number of extra pairs of legs, had begun to fit out exploring expeditions over his body. They roamed about him as if he were some newly opened recreation ground, strolled in couples down his neck, and made up jolly family parties on his bare feet. And then, first dropping like the gentle dew upon the place beneath, then swishing down in a steady flood, it began to rain again. It was at this point that Mr. Bennet's manly spirit broke, and time ceased to exist for him. Eons later, a voice spoke from below. Hello! said the voice. Mr. Bennet looked down. The stalwart form of Jane Hubbard was standing beneath him, gazing up from under a tamo-shanter cap. Smith the bulldog gambled about her shapely feet. Whatever are you doing up there? said Jane. I say, do you know if the car has come back? No, it has not. I've got to go to the doctors.  Oh, well, I'll have to walk. Come along, Smith. She turned towards the drive, Smith caracalling at her side. Mr. Bennet, though free now to move, remained where he was, transfixed.  Eustis Hignet was ill. He had thought all along that the fellow was sickening for something, confound him. What's the matter with him, bellowed Mr. Bennet after Jane Hubbard's retreating back? A. queried Jane, stopping. What's the matter with Hignet? I don't know. Is it infectious? I expect so. Great heavens, cried Mr. Bennet, and lowering himself cautiously to the ground, squelched across the dripping grass. In the hall, Webster the Vallet, dry and dignified, was tapping the barometer with the wrist action of an ambassador knocking on the door of a friendly monarch. A sharp downpour, sir, he remarked. Have you been in the house all the time, demanded Mr. Bennet? Yes, sir. Didn't you hear me shouting? I did fancy I heard something, sir. Then why the devil didn't you come to me? I supposed it to be the owls, sir, a bird very frequent in this locality. They make a sort of harsh hooting howl, sir. I have sometimes wondered, said Webster, pursuing a not uninteresting train of thought. Whether that might be the reason of the name. Before Mr. Bennet could join him in the region of speculation into which he had penetrated, there was a grinding of brakes on the gravel outside, and the wettest motor car in England drew up at the front door. Three. From Wendell's to Southampton is a distance of about twenty miles, and the rain had started to fall when the car—an open one lacking even the poor projection of a cape hood—had accomplished half the homeward journey. For the last ten miles Mr. Mortimer had been nursing a sullen hatred for all created things, and when entering the house he came upon Mr. Bennet hopping about in the hall, endeavouring to detain him and tell him some long and uninteresting story, his venom concentrated itself upon his erstwhile friend.  Can't you see I'm wet? Wet, wet! Mr. Bennet's voice quivered with self-pity. So am I wet. Father, dear, said Billy reprovingly, you really oughtn't to have come into the house after bathing without drying yourself, you'll spoil the carpet. I have not been bathing, I'm trying to tell you. Hello, said Bream, with amiable innocence, coming in at the tail end of the party. Been having a jolly bath? Mr. Bennet danced with silent irritation, and striking a bare toe against the leg of a chair, seized his left foot, and staggered into the arms of Webster, who had been preparing to drift off to the servant's hall. Linked together, the two proceeded across the carpet in a movement which suggested unequal parts, the careless vigor of the cake-walk, and the grace of the old-fashioned Mazurka.  Nothing, sir, and I should be glad if you would accept my weak's notice, replied Webster calmly. What's that? My notice, sir, to take effect at the expiration of the current week. I cannot acquiesce in being cursed and sworn at. Oh, go to blazes! Very good, sir. Webster withdrew like a plainly potentiary who has been handed his papers on the declaration of war, and Mr. Bennet sprang to intercept Mr. Mortimer, who had slipped by and was making for the stairs. Mortimer! Oh, what is it? That infernal dog of yours, I insist on your destroying it. What's it been doing? The savage brute chased me all over the garden and kept me sitting up on that damned castle the whole of the morning.  I don't expect poor old Smith meant any harm, she added pacifically, as she disappeared in the direction of the landing. Of course he didn't, snapped Mr. Mortimer. He's as quiet as a lamb.  I had to run like a hare. The unfortunate Bream, who's sense of the humerus was simple and childlike, was not proof against the picture, thus conjured up. Kikik! Giggled Bream helplessly. Kikikik! Mr. Bennet turned on him. Oh, it strikes you as funny, does it? Well, let me tell you that if you think you can laugh at me with— with—or, one hand, and—and marry my daughter with the other, you're wrong. You can consider your engagement at an end. Oh, I say! ejaculated Bream, abruptly sobered. Mortimer! bawled Mr. Bennet, once more arresting the other as he was about to mount the stairs. Do you or do you not intend to destroy that dog? I do not. I insist on your doing so. He is a menace. He is nothing of the kind. On your own showing he didn't even bite you once, and every dog is allowed one bite by law. The case of Wilberforce v. Bayless covers that point thoroughly. I don't care about the case of Wilberforce and Bayless. You will find that you have to. It is a legal precedent. There is something about a legal precedent which gives pause to the angriest man. Mr. Bennet felt, as every layman feels when arguing with a lawyer, as if he were in the coils of a python. Say, Mr. Bennet, began Bream at his elbow. Get out, snarled Mr. Bennet. Yes, but say. The green bay's door at the end of the hall opened and Webster appeared. I beg your pardon, sir, said Webster, but luncheon will be served within the next few minutes. Possibly you may wish to make some change of costume. Bring me my lunch on a tray in my room, said Mr. Bennet. I am going to bed. Very good, sir. But say, Mr. Bennet, resumed Bream. Garrrr, replied his ex-prospective father-in-law, and bounded up the stairs like a portion of the sunset, which had become detached from the main body. Four. Even into the blackest days there generally creeps an occasional ray of sunshine, and there are a few crises of human gloom which are not lightened by a bit of luck. It was so with Mr. Bennet in his hour of travail, there were lobsters for lunch, and his passion for lobsters had made him the talk of three New York clubs. He was feeling a little happier when Billy came in to see how he was getting on. Hello, father, had a nice lunch? Yes, said Mr. Bennet, cheering up a little at the recollection. There was nothing wrong with the lunch. How little we fallible mortals know. Even as he spoke, a tiny fragment of lobster shell, which had been working its way silently into the tip of his tongue, was settling down under the skin and getting ready to cause him the most acute mental distress which he had ever known. The lunch, said Mr. Bennet, was excellent. Lobsters. He licked his lips appreciatively.  Yes. You don't seem very upset, said Mr. Bennet, who was in the mood for a dramatic scene and felt a little disappointed. Oh, I've become a fatalist on the subject of my engagements. I don't understand you. Well, I mean they never seem to come to anything. Billy gazed wistfully at the counterpane.  I wish I didn't do silly things in such a hurry. I don't see where the hurry comes in as regards that mortimer, boy. You took ten years to make up your mind. I was not thinking of Bream, another man. Great heavens! Are you still imagining yourself in love with young Hignet? Oh, no! I can see now that I was never in love with poor Eustace. I was thinking of a man I got engaged to on the boat. Mr. Bennet sat bolt upright in bed and stared incredulously at his surprising daughter. His head was beginning to swim. Of course I've misunderstood you, he said. There's a catch somewhere, and I haven't seen it. But for a moment you gave me the impression that you had promised to marry some man on the boat. I did. But— Mr. Bennet was doing sums on his fingers. Do you mean to tell me, he demanded, having brought out the answer to his satisfaction? Do you mean to tell me that you have been engaged to three men in three weeks? Yes, said Billy in a small voice. Great Godfrey! No, only three. Mr. Bennet sank back onto his pillow with a snort. The trouble is, continued Billy, one does things, and doesn't know how one is going to feel about it afterwards. You can do an awful lot of thinking afterwards, Father. I'm doing a lot of thinking now, said Mr. Bennet with austerity. You oughtn't to be allowed to go around loose. Well, it doesn't matter. I shall never get engaged again. I shall never love anyone again.  Billy nodded miserably. I didn't realize it till we came down here. But as I sat and watched the rain, it suddenly came over me that I had thrown away my life's happiness. It was as if I had been offered a wonderful jewel and had refused it. I seemed to hear a voice reproaching me and saying, You have had your chance. It will never come again. Don't talk nonsense, said Mr. Bennet. Billy stiffened. She had thought she had been talking rather well. Mr. Bennet was silent for a moment. Then he started up with an exclamation. The mention of Eustis Hignet had stirred his memory. What's young Hignet got wrong with him? he asked. Mumps. Mumps? Good God, not mumps! Mr. Bennet quailed. I've never had mumps. One of the most infectious. This is awful. Oh, heavens! Why did I ever come to this Lazar house? cried Mr. Bennet, shaken to his depths. There isn't the slightest danger, father, dear. Don't be silly.  You must be tired after this morning. Sleep, if only I could, said Mr. Bennet. And did so five minutes after the door had closed. He awoke half an hour later with a confused sense that something was wrong. He had been dreaming that he was walking down Fifth Avenue at the head of a military brass band, clad only in a bathing suit. As he sat up in bed, blinking in the dazed fashion of the half-awakened, the band seemed to be playing still. There was undeniably music in the air. The room was full of it. It seemed to be coming up through the floor and rolling about in chunks all round his bed. Mr. Bennet blinked the last fragments of sleep out of his system, and became filled with a restless irritability. There was only one instrument in the house which could create this infernal din, the Orchestrian in the drawing-room, immediately above which, he recalled, his room was situated. He rang the bell for Webster. Is Mr. Mortimer playing that damned gas engine in the drawing-room? Yes, sir. Tostes, good-bye. A charming air, sir. Go and tell him to stop it. Very good, sir. Mr. Bennet lay in bed and fumed. Presently the valet returned. The music still continued to roll about the room. I am sorry to have to inform you, sir, said Webster, that Mr. Mortimer declines to accede to your request. Oh, he said that, did he? That is the gist of his remarks, sir. Very good. Then give me my dressing-gown. Webster swirled to his employer in the garment, indicated, and returned to the kitchen, where he informed the cook that, in his opinion, the governor was not a force, and that if he were a betting-man, he would put his money in the forthcoming struggle on Consul, the almost human. By which affectionate nickname Mr. Mortimer Sr. was generally alluded to in the servants' hall. Mr. Bennet, meanwhile, had reached the drawing-room and found his former friend lying at full length on a sofa, smoking a cigar, a full dozen feet away from the orchestrion, which continued to thunder out its dirge on the passing of summer. Will you turn that infernal thing off, said Mr. Bennet? No, said Mr. Mortimer. Now, now, now, said a voice. Jane Hubbard was standing in the doorway with a look of calm re-proof on her face. We can't have this, you know, said Jane Hubbard. You're disturbing my patient. She strode without hesitation to the instrument, explored its ribs with a firm finger, pushed something, and the orchestrion broke off in the middle of a bar. Then, walking serenely to the door, she passed out and closed it behind her. The baser side of his nature urged Mr. Bennet to triumph over the vanquished. Now what about it, he said, ungenerously. Interfering girl, mumbled Mr. Mortimer, chafing beneath defeat. I have a good mind to start it again. I dare you, whooped Mr. Bennet, reverting to the phraseology of his vanished childhood.  I've a perfect legal right. Oh, well, he said, there are lots of other things I can do. What do you mean, exclaimed Mr. Bennet, alarmed. Never mind, said Mr. Mortimer, taking up a book. Mr. Bennet went back to bed in an uneasy frame of mind. He brooded for half an hour, and, at the expiration of that period, rang for Webster and requested that Billy should be sent to him. I want you to go to London, he said, when she appeared. I must have legal advice. I want you to go and see Sir Malaby Marlowe. Tell him that Henry Mortimer is annoying me in every possible way, and sheltering himself behind his knowledge of the law so that I can't get at him. Ask Sir Malaby to come down here, and if he can't come himself, tell him to send someone who can advise me. His son would do if he knows anything about the business. Oh, I'm sure he does. Hey, how do you know? Well, I mean he looks as if he does, said Billy hastily. He looks so clever. I didn't notice it myself. Well, he'll do if Sir Malaby's too busy to come himself. I want you to go up to night, so that you can see him first thing to-morrow morning. You can stop the night at the Savoy. I've sent Webster to look out a train. There's a splendid train in about an hour. I'll take that. It's giving you a lot of trouble, said Mr. Bennett, with belated consideration. Oh, no, said Billy. I'm only too glad to be able to do this for you, Father dear. End of Chapter 10, read by Kara Schellenberg in June 2011, in San Diego, California. Chapter 11 of The Girl on the Boat by P. G. Woodhouse. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 11. Mr. Bennett has a bad night. The fragment of a lobster shell which had entered Mr. Bennett's tongue at twenty minutes to two in the afternoon was still in occupation at half past eleven that night, when that persecuted gentleman blew out his candle and endeavored to compose himself for a night slumber. Its unconscious host had not yet been made aware of its presence. He had a vague feeling that the tip of his tongue felt a little sore, but his mind was too engrossed with the task of keeping a look out for the preliminary symptoms of mumps, to have leisure to bestow much attention on this phenomenon. The discomfort it caused was not sufficient to keep him awake, and presently he turned on his side and began to fill the room with a rhythmical snoring. How pleasant if one could leave him so, the good man taking his rest. Facts, however, are facts, and, having crept softly from Mr. Bennett's side, with the feeling that, at last, everything is all right with him, we are compelled to return three hours later to discover that everything is all wrong. It is so dark in the room that our eyes can at first discern nothing, then, as we grow accustomed to the blackness, we perceive him sitting both upright in bed, staring glassily before him, while with the first finger of his right hand he touches apprehensively the tip of his protruding tongue. At this point Mr. Bennett lights his candle. One of the charms of windows was the old world simplicity of its lighting system, and we are enabled to get a better view of him. Mr. Bennett sat in the candle light with his tongue out, and the first beads of a chilly perspiration be doing his forehead. It was impossible for a man of his complexion to turn pale, but he had turned as pale as he could. Panic gripped him. A man whose favourite reading was the medical encyclopedias, he needed no doctor to tell him that this was the end. Fate had dealt him a knock-out blow, his number was up, and in a very short while now people would be speaking of him in the past tense, and saying what a pity it all was. A man in Mr. Bennett's position experiences strange emotions, and many of them. In fact there are scores of writers who, reckless of the cost of white paper, would devote two chapters at this point to an analysis of the unfortunate man's reflections, and be glad of the chance. It is sufficient, however, merely to set on record that there was no stint. Whatever are the emotions of a man in such a position, Mr. Bennett had them. He had them all, one after another, some of them twice. He went right through the list from soup to nuts, until finally he reached remorse, and having reached remorse, he allowed that to monopolize him. In his early days, when he was building up his fortune, Mr. Bennett had frequently done things to his competitors in Wall Street, which would not have been tolerated in the purer atmosphere of a lumber camp, and, if he was going to be remorseful about anything, he might well have started by being remorseful about that. But it was on his most immediate past that his wistful mind lingered. He had quarreled with his lifelong friend Henry Mortimer. He had broken off his daughter's engagement with a deserving young man. He had spoken harsh words to his faithful valet. The more Mr. Bennett examined his conduct, the deeper the iron entered into his soul. Fortunately, none of his acts were irreparable. He could undo them. He could make amends. The small hours of the morning are not perhaps the most suitable time for making amends, but Mr. Bennett was too remorseful to think of that. Do-it-now had ever been his motto, so he started by ringing the bell for Webster. The same writers who would have screamed with joy at the chance of dilating on Mr. Bennett's emotions would find a congenial task in describing the valet's thought processes when the bell roused him from a refreshing sleep at a few minutes after 3 a.m. However, by the time he entered his employer's room he was his own calm self again. Good morning, sir, he remarked equibly. I fear that it will be the matter of a few minutes to prepare your shaving water. I was not aware, said Webster in manly apology for having been found wanting. That you intended rising so early. Webster, said Mr. Bennett, I'm a dying man. Indeed, sir. A dying man, repeated Mr. Bennett. Very good, sir, which of your suits would you wish me to lay out? Mr. Bennett had the feeling that something was going wrong with the scene. Webster, he said, this morning we had an unfortunate misunderstanding. I'm sorry. Pray don't mention it, sir. I was to blame. Webster, you have been a faithful servant.  Through thick and thin, repeated Mr. Bennett, I have endeavored to give satisfaction, sir. I want to reward you, Webster. Thank you very much, sir. Take my trousers. Webster raised a deprecating hand. No, no, sir, thanking you exceedingly. I couldn't really. You will need them, sir, and I assure you I have an ample supply. Take my trousers, repeated Mr. Bennett, and feel in the right-hand pocket. There is some money there. I'm sure I'm very much obliged, sir, said Webster, beginning for the first time to feel that there was a bright side. He embarked upon the treasure hunt. The sum is sixteen pounds, eleven shillings, and three pence, sir. Keep it. Thank you very much, sir. Would there be anything further, sir? Why, no, said Mr. Bennett, feeling dissatisfied, nevertheless. There had been a lack of the deepest kind of emotion in the interview, and his yearning soul resented it. Why, no. Good night, sir. Stop a moment. Which is Mr. Mortimer's room? Mr. Mortimer, senior, sir? It is at the further end of this passage, on the left, facing the main staircase. Good night, sir. I am extremely honored to have met you. Good night, sir. I am extremely obliged. I will bring you your shaving-water when you ring. Mr. Bennett, left alone, mused for a while, then, rising from his bed, put on his dressing-gown, took his candle, and went down the passage. In a less softened mood the first thing Mr. Bennett would have done on crossing the threshold of the door facing the staircase would have been to notice resentfully that Mr. Mortimer, with his usual astuteness, had collared the best bedroom in the house. The soft carpet gave out no sound as Mr. Bennett approached the wide and luxurious bed. The light of the candle fell on the back of a semi-balled head. Mr. Mortimer was sleeping with his face buried in the pillow. It cannot have been good for him, but that was what he was doing. From the portion of the pillow in which his face was buried, strange gurgles proceeded, like the distant rumble of an approaching train on the underground. Mortimer, said Mr. Bennett. The train stopped at a station to pick up passengers and rumbled on again. Henry, said Mr. Bennett, and nudged his sleeping friend in the small of the back. Leave it on the mat, mumbled Mr. Mortimer, stirring slightly and uncovering one corner of his mouth. Mr. Bennett began to forget his remorse in a sense of injury. He felt like a man with a good story to tell, who couldn't get nobody to listen to him. He nudged the other again, more vehemently this time. Mr. Mortimer made a noise like a gramophone when the needle slips, moved restlessly for a moment, then sat up, staring at the candle. Rabbits, rabbits, rabbits, said Mr. Mortimer, and sank back again. He had begun to rumble before he touched the pillow. What do you mean rabbits, said Mr. Bennett sharply? The not unreasonable query fell on deaf ears. Mr. Mortimer was already entering a tunnel. Much too pink, he murmured, as the pillow engulfed him. What steps Mr. Bennett would have taken at this juncture, one cannot say. Probably he would have given the thing up in despair and retired, for it is weary work for giving a sleeping man. But, as he bent above his slumbering friend, a drop of warm grease detached itself from the candle and fell into Mr. Mortimer's exposed ear. The sleep awakened. What, what, what? he exclaimed, bounding up. Who's that? It's me, Rufus, said Mr. Bennett. Henry, I'm dying. Drying? Dying. Mr. Mortimer yawned cavernously. The mists of sleep were engulfing him again. Eight rabbits, sitting on the lawn, he muttered, but too pink, much too pink. And, as if considering he had borne his full share in the conversation and that no more could be expected of him, he snuggled down into the pillow again. Mr. Bennett's sense of injury became more acute. For a moment he was strongly tempted to try the restorative effects of candle-grease once more, but, just as he was on the point of succumbing a shooting pain, as if somebody had run a red-hot needle into his tongue, reminded him of his situation. A dying man cannot pass his last hours dropping candle-grease into people's ears. After all, it was perhaps a little late, and there would be plenty of time to become reconciled to Mr. Mortimer tomorrow. His task now was to seek out Bream and bring him the glad news of his renewed engagement. He closed the door quietly and proceeded upstairs. Bream's bedroom, he knew, was the one just off the next landing. He turned the handle quietly and went in. Having done this he coughed. Drop that pistol, said the voice of Jane Hubbard immediately, with quiet severity. I've got you covered. Mr. Bennett had no pistol, but he dropped the candle. It would have been a nice point to say whether he was more perturbed by the discovery that he had got into the wrong room and that room a ladies, or by the fact that the lady whose wrong room it was had pointed what appeared to be a small cannon at him over the foot of the bed. It was not, as a matter of fact, a cannon, but the elephant-gun, which Miss Hubbard carried with her everywhere, a girl's best friend. My dear young lady, he gasped. On the five occasions during recent years on which men had entered her tent with the object of murdering her, Jane Hubbard had shot without making inquiries. What strange feminine weakness it was that had caused her to utter a challenge on this occasion she could not have said. Probably it was due to the innervating effects of civilization. She was glad now that she had done so, for being awake and in full possession of her faculties, she perceived that the intruder, whoever he was, had no evil intentions. Who is it? she asked. I don't know how to apologize. That's all right, let's have a light. A match flared in the darkness. Miss Hubbard lit her candle and gazed at Mr. Bennett with quiet curiosity. Walking in your sleep, she inquired. No, no. Not so loud. You'll wake Mr. Hignet. He's next door. That's why I took this room, in case he was restless in the night. I want to see Breem Mortimer, said Mr. Bennett. He's in my old room, two doors along the passage. What do you want to see him about? I wish to inform him that he may still consider himself engaged to my daughter. Oh, well, I don't suppose he'll mind being woken up to hear that. But what's the idea? It's a long story. That's all right, let's make a night of it. I am a dying man. I awoke an hour ago with a feeling of acute pain. Miss Hubbard listened to the story of his symptoms with interest, but without excitement. What nonsense, she said at the conclusion. I assure you. I'd like to bet it's nothing serious at all. My dear young lady, said Mr. Bennett, peaked. I have devoted a considerable part of my life to medical study. I know, that's the trouble. People oughtn't to be allowed to read medical books. Well, we need not discuss it, said Mr. Bennett stiffly. He resented being dragged out of the valley of the shadow of death by the scruff of his neck like this. A dying man has his dignity to think of. I will leave you now and go and see young Mortimer. He clung to a hope that Breem Mortimer at least would receive him fittingly. Good night. But wait a moment. Mr. Bennett left the room unheeding. He was glad to go. Jane Hubbard irritated him. His expectation of getting more satisfactory results from Breem was fulfilled. It took some time to rouse that young man from a slumber almost as deep as his father's, but once roused he showed a gratifying appreciation of the gravity of affairs. Joy at one half of his visitors' news competed with consternation and sympathy at the other half. He thanked Mr. Bennett profusely, showed a fitting concern on learning of his terrible situation, and evinced a practical desire to help by offering him a bottle of liniment, which he had found useful for net-stings. Declining this, though not ungrateful, Mr. Bennett withdrew and made his way down the passage again with something approaching a glow in his heart. The glow lasted till he had almost reached the landing, when it was dissipated by a soft but compelling voice from the doorway of Miss Hubbard's room. Come here, said Miss Hubbard. She had put on a blue bathrobe, and looked like a pugilist about to enter the ring. Well, said Mr. Bennett coldly, coming nevertheless. I'm going to have a look at that tongue of yours, said Jane firmly. It's my opinion that you're making a lot of fuss over nothing. Mr.  Come in here, she said. Tougher men than Mr. Bennett had found it impossible to resist the note of calm command in that voice, but for all that he reproached himself for his weakness in obeying. Sit down, said Jane Hubbard. She indicated a low stool beside the dressing table. Put your tongue out, she said, as Mr. Bennett, still under her strange influence, lowered himself onto the stool. Further out, that's right, keep it like that. Ouch! exclaimed Mr. Bennett, bounding up. Don't make such a noise. You'll wake Mr. Hignet. Sit down again. I sit down. Mr. Bennett sat down. Ms. Hubbard extended once more the hand-holding the needle which had caused his outcry. He winced away from it desperately. Baby, said Ms. Hubbard reprovingly. Why, I once sewed eighteen stitches in a native bearer's head, and he didn't make half the fuss you're making, now keep quite still. Mr. Bennett did, for perhaps the space of two seconds, then he leaped from his seat once more. It was a tribute to the forceful personality of the fair surgeon, if one were needed, that the squeal he uttered was a subdued one. He was just about to speak. He had framed the opening words of a strong protest, when suddenly he became aware of something in his mouth, something small and hard. He removed it and examined it as it lay on his finger. It was a minute fragment of lobster shell. And at the same time he became conscious of a marked improvement in the state of his tongue. The swelling had gone. I told you so, said Jane Hubbard placidly. What is it? It appears to be a piece of— Lobster shell. And we had lobster for lunch. Good night. Halfway down the stairs it suddenly occurred to Mr. Bennett that he wanted to sing. He wanted to sing very loud and for quite some time. He restrained the impulse and went to bed, but relief such as his was too strong to keep bottled up. He wanted to tell someone all about it. He needed a confidant. Webster, the valet, awakened once again by the ringing of his bell, sighed resignedly and made his way downstairs. Did you ring, sir? Webster, cried Mr. Bennett. It's all right. I'm not dying after all. I'm not dying after all, Webster. Very good, sir, said Webster. Will there be anything further? End of Chapter 11, read by Kara Schellenberg in June 2011, in San Diego, California. Chapter 12 of The Girl on the Boat by P. G. Woodhouse. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 12, The Lurid Past of John Peters. That's right, said Sir Malaby Marlowe. Work while you're young, Sam, work while you're young. He regarded his son's bent head with affectionate approval. What's the book today? Widgery on Nesey Prius Evidence, said Sam, without looking up. Capital, said Sir Malaby, highly improving and as interesting as a novel. Some novels. There's a splendid bid on, I think, page 254, where the hero finds out all about copyhold and customary estates. It's a wonderfully powerful situation. It appears, but I won't spoil it for you. Mine, you don't skip to see how it all comes out in the end.  For this was the day when he went down to Walton Heath for his weekly foresum with three old friends. His tubby form was clad in tweed of a violent nature, with knickerbockers and stockings. Sam! Well? Sam, a man at the club, showed me a new grip the other day, instead of overlapping the little finger of the right hand. Oh, by the way, Sam. Yes? I should lock up the office today, if I were you, or anxious clients will be coming in and asking for advice, and you'll find yourself in difficulties. I shall be gone, and Peter's is away on his holiday. You'd better lock the outer door. All right, said Sam absently. He was finding wagery, stiff reading. He had just got to the bit about raptu heredus, which, as of course you know, is a writ for taking away an air holding in soak-edge. Sir Malaby looked at his watch. Well, I'll have to be going. See you later, Sam. Good-bye. Sir Malaby went out, and Sam, placing both elbows on the desk and twining his fingers in his hair, returned with a frown of consternation to his grappling with wagery. For perhaps ten minutes the struggle was an even one, then gradually wagery got the upper hand. Sam's mind, numbed by constant batterings against the stony ramparts of legal phraseology, weakened, faltered, and dropped away, and a moment later his thoughts, as so often happened when he was alone, darted off, and began to circle round the image of Billy Bennett.  But, unfortunately, he did not believe it. A man takes a deal of convincing on a point like this, and Sam had never succeeded in convincing himself for more than two minutes at a time. It was useless to pretend that he did not still love Billy more than ever, because he knew he did. And now, as the truth swept over him for the hundred and first time, he groaned hollowly, and gave himself up to the gray despair, which is the almost inseparable companion of young men in his position. So engrossed was he in his meditation that he did not hear the light footstep in the outer office, and it was only when it was followed by a tap on the door of the inner office that he awoke with a start to the fact that clients were in his midst. He wished that he had taken his father's advice and locked up the office. Probably this was some frightful boar who wanted to make his infernal will or something, and Sam had neither the ability nor the inclination to assist him. Was it too late to escape? Perhaps if he did not answer the knock, the blighter might think there was nobody at home. But suppose he opened the door and peeped in. A spasm of Napoleonic strategy seized Sam. He dropped silently to the floor and concealed himself under the desk. Napoleon was always doing that sort of thing. There was another tap. Then, as he had anticipated, the door opened. Sam, crouched like a hare in its form, held his breath. It seemed to him that he was going to bring this delicate operation off with success. He felt he had acted just as Napoleon would have done in a similar crisis. And so, no doubt he had, to a certain extent, only Napoleon would have seen to it that his boots and about eighteen inches of trousered legs were not sticking out, plainly visible to all who entered. Good morning, said a voice. Sam thrilled from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. It was the voice which had been ringing in his ears through all his waking hours. Are you busy, Mr. Marlow? asked Billy, addressing the boots. Sam wriggled out from under the desk like a disconcerted tortoise. Dropped my pen, he mumbled, as he rose to the surface. He pulled himself together with an effort that was like a physical exercise. He stared at Billy dumbly. Then, recovering speech, he invited her to sit down and seated himself at the desk. Dropped my pen, he gurgled again. Yes, said Billy. Fountain pen, babbled Sam, with a broad nib. Yes. A broad gold nib, went on Sam, with the painful exactitude which comes only from embarrassment or the early stages of intoxication. Really? said Billy, and Sam blinked and told himself resolutely that this would not do. He was not appearing to advantage. It suddenly occurred to him that his hair was standing on end as the result of his struggle with wagery. He smoothed it down hastily and felt a trifle more composed. The old fighting spirit of the Marlows now began to assert itself to some extent. He must make an effort to appear as little of a fool as possible in this girl's eyes, and what eyes they were, golly, like stars, like two bright planets in— However, that was neither here nor there. He pulled down his waistcoat and became cold and businesslike, the dry young lawyer. Er, how do you do, Miss Bennet? he said, with a question in his voice, raising his eyebrows in a professional way. He modelled this performance on that of lawyers he had seen on the stage, and wished he had some snuff to take or something to tap against his front teeth. Miss Bennet, I believe? The effect of the question upon Billy was disastrous.  But at this inane exhibition the fighting spirit of the Bennets, which was fully as militant as that of the Marlows, became roused. She told herself that she had been mistaken in supposing that she still loved this man. She was a proud girl, and refused to admit herself capable of loving any man, who looked at her as if she was something that the cat had brought in. She drew herself up stiffly. Yes, she replied, how clever of you to remember me. I have a good memory. How nice! So have I. There was a pause, during which Billy allowed her gaze to travel casually about the room. Sam occupied the intermission by staring furtively at her profile. He was by now in a thoroughly overwrought condition, and the thumping of his heart sounded to him as if workmen were mending the street outside. How beautiful she looked, with that red hair peeping out beneath her head, and—however. Is there anything I can do for you? he asked, in the sort of voice Wigery might have used. Sam always pictured Wigery as a small man, with bushy eyebrows, a thin face, and a voice like a rusty file. Well, I really wanted to see Sir Malaby. My father has been called away on important business to Walton Heath, cannot I act as his substitute? Do you know anything about the law? Do I know anything about the law? echoed Sam, amazed. Do I know why I was reading my Wigery on Nisey Prius evidence when you came in? Oh, were you, said Billy, interested? Do you always read on the floor?  And, of course, you couldn't read without that. Well, as a matter of fact, this has nothing to do with Nisey what you said. I have not specialized exclusively on Nisey Prius evidence, I know the law in all its branches. Then what would you do if a man insisted on playing the Orchestrian when you wanted to get to sleep? The Orchestrian? Yes. The Orchestrian, eh? Ah, hmm, said Sam. You still haven't made it quite clear, said Billy. I was thinking. Oh, if you want to think. Tell me the facts, said Sam. Well, Mr. Mortimer and my father have taken a house together in the country. I knew that. What a memory you have, said Billy kindly. Well, for some reason or other they have quarreled, and now Mr. Mortimer is doing everything he can to make father uncomfortable. Yesterday afternoon father wanted to sleep, and Mr. Mortimer started this Orchestrian just to annoy him. I think—I'm not quite sure—I think that's a tort, said Sam. A what? Either a tort or a malfeasance. Why, you do know something about it after all, cried Billy, startled into a sort of friendliness in spite of herself. And at the words and the sight of her quick smile, Sam's professional composer reeled on its foundations. He had half risen, with the purpose of springing up and babbling of the passion that consumed him, when the chill reflection came to him that this girl had once said that she considered him ridiculous. If he let himself go, would she not continue to think him ridiculous? He sagged back into his seat, and at that moment there came another tap on the door, which, opening, revealed the sinister face of the holiday-making Peters. Good morning, Mr. Samuel, said John Peters. Good morning, Miss Millican. Oh! He vanished as abruptly as he had appeared. He perceived that what he had taken at first glance for this stenographer was a client, and that the junior partner was engaged on a business conference. He left behind him a momentary silence.  John Peters often affected the opposite sex like that at first sight. I beg your pardon, said Sam absently.  He quite frightened me. For some moments Sam sat without speaking. If this had not been one of his Napoleonic mornings, no doubt the sudden arrival of his old friend Mr. Peters, whom he had imagined at his home in Putney, packing for his trip to America, would have suggested nothing to him. As it was, it suggested a great deal. He had had a brainwave, and for fully a minute he sat tingling under its impact. He was not a young man who often had brainwaves, and when they came they made him rather dizzy. Who is he? asked Billy. He seemed to know you. And who, she demanded after a slight pause, is Miss Millican. Sam drew a deep breath. It's rather a sad story, he said. His name is John Peters. He used to be clerk here. But he isn't any longer. No, Sam shook his head. We had to get rid of him. I don't wonder a man looking like that. It wasn't that so much, said Sam. The thing that annoyed Father was that he tried to shoot Miss Millican. Billy uttered a cry of horror. He tried to shoot Miss Millican. He did shoot her, the third time, said Sam, warming to his work. But only in the arm, fortunately, he added. But my father is rather a stern disciplinarian, and he had to go. I mean, we couldn't keep him after that. Good gracious! She used to be my father's stenographer, and she was thrown a good deal with Peters. It was quite natural that he should fall in love with her. She was a beautiful girl, with rather your own shade of hair. Peters is a man of volcanic passions, and when, after she had given him to understand that his love was returned, she informed him one day that she was engaged to a fellow at Ealing West, he went right off his onion. I mean, he became completely distraught. I must say that he concealed it very effectively at first. We had no inkling of his condition till he came in with the pistol. And after that—well, as I say, we had to dismiss him. A great pity for he was a good clerk. Still, it wouldn't do. It wasn't only that he tried to shoot Miss Millican, the thing became an obsession with him, and we found that he had a fixed idea that every red-haired woman who came into the office was the girl who had deceived him. You can see how awkward that made it. Red hair is so fashionable nowadays. My hair is red! whispered Billy, pallidly. Yes, I noticed it myself. I told you it was much the same shade as Miss Millican's. It's rather fortunate that I happened to be here with you when he came. But he may be lurking out there still. I expect he is, said Sam carelessly. Yes, I suppose he is. Would you like me to go and send him away? All right. But—but is it safe? Sam uttered a light laugh. I don't mind taking a risk or two for your sake, he said, and sauntered from the room, closing the door behind him. Billy followed him with worshipping eyes. John Peters rose pallidly from the chair in which he had seated himself for the more comfortable perusal of the copy of Home Whispers, which he had brought with him to refresh his mind in the event of the firm being too busy to see him immediately. He was particularly interested in the series of Chats with Young Mothers. Hello, Peters, said Sam. Want anything? Very sorry to have disturbed you, Mr. Samuel. I just looked in to say goodbye. I sail on Saturday, and my time will be pretty fully taken up all the week. I have to go down to the country to get some final instructions from the client, whose important papers I am taking over. I'm sorry to have missed your father, Mr. Samuel. Yes, this is his golf day. I'll tell him you looked in. Is there anything I can do before I go? Do? Well—John Peters coughed tactfully. I see that you are engaged with a client, Mr. Samuel, and I was wondering if any little point of law had arisen, with which you did not feel yourself quite capable of coping, in which case I might perhaps be of assistance. Oh, that lady, said Sam, that was Miss Millican's sister. Indeed, I didn't know Miss Millican had a sister. No, said Sam. She is not very like her in appearance. No, this one is the beauty of the family, I believe—a very bright, intelligent girl. I was telling her about your revolver just before you came in, and she was most interested. It's a pity you haven't got it with you now, to show to her. Oh, but I have it! I have, Mr. Samuel, said Peters, opening a small handbag and taking out a hymn-book, half a pound of mixed chocolates, a tongue sandwich, and the pistol, in the order named. I was on my way to the Rupert Street range for a little practice. I should be glad to show it to her. Well, wait here a minute or two, said Sam. I'll have finished talking business in a moment. He returned to the inner office. Well, cried Billy.  I persuaded him to go away. He was a little excited, poor fellow. And now let us return to what we were talking about. You say— He broke off with an exclamation and glanced at his watch. Good heavens, I had no idea of the time. I promised to run up and see a man in one of the offices in the next court. He wants to consult me on some difficulty which has arisen with one of his clients. Rightly or wrongly, he values my advice. Can you spare me for a short while? I shan't be more than ten minutes. Certainly. Here is something you may care to look at while I'm gone. I don't know if you've read it. Widgery on Nisi Prius Evidence. Most interesting. He went out. John Peters looked up from his home whispers. You can go in now, said Sam. Certainly, Mr. Samuel certainly. Sam took up the copy of home whispers and sat down with his feet on the desk. He turned to the serial story and began to read the synopsis. In the inner room, Billy, who had rejected the mental refreshment offered by Widgery, and was engaged on making a tour of the office, looking at the portraits of whiskered men whom she took correctly to be the Thorps, Prescott's, Winslow's, and Appleby's mentioned on the contents bill outside, was surprised to hear the door open at her back. She had not expected Sam to return so instantaneously. Nor had he done so. It was not Sam who entered. It was a man of repellent aspect whom she recognized instantly, for John Peters was one of those men who, once seen, are not easily forgotten. He was smiling a cruel, cunning smile. At least, she thought he was. Mr. Peters himself was under the impression that his face was wreathed in a benevolent simper, and in his hand he bore the largest pistol ever seen outside a motion-picture studio. How do you do, Miss Millican? he said. End of Chapter 12. Read by Kara Schellenberg, www.kray.org, on the 4th of July, 2011, in San Diego, California. Chapter 13 of The Girl on the Boat by P. G. Woodhouse. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 13. Shocks all round. Billy had been standing near the wall, inspecting a portrait of the late Mr. Josiah Appleby, of which the kindest thing one can say is that one hopes it did not do him justice. She now shrank back against this wall as if she were trying to get through it. The edge of the portrait's frame tilted her hat out of the straight, but in this supreme moment she did not even notice it. Or how do you do? she said. If she had not been an exceedingly pretty girl, one would have said that she spoke squeakily. The fighting spirit of the Bennets, though it was considerable fighting spirit, had not risen to this emergency. It had abbed out of her, leaving in its place a cold panic. She had seen this sort of thing in the movies. There was one series of pictures, the dangers of Diana, where something of the kind had happened to the heroine in every reel, but she had not anticipated that it would ever happen to her, and consequently she had not thought out any plan for coping with such a situation. A grave error. In this world one should be prepared for everything, or where is one? I have brought the revolver, said Mr. Peters. So, so I see, said Billy. Mr. Peters nursed the weapon affectionately in his hand. He was rather a shy man with women as a rule, but what Sam had told him about her being interested in his revolver had made his heart warm to this girl. I was just on my way to have a little practice at the range, he said. Then I thought I might as well look in here. I suppose— I suppose you're a good shot, quavered Billy. I seldom miss, said John Peters. Billy shuddered, then reflecting that the longer she engaged this maniac in conversation, the more hope there was of Sam coming back in time to save her, she essayed further small talk. It's—it's very ugly. Oh, no! said Mr. Peters, hurt. Billy perceived that she had said the wrong thing. Very deadly-looking I meant, she corrected herself hastily. It may have deadly work to do, Miss Millican, said Mr. Peters. Conversation languished again. Billy had no further remarks to make of immediate interest, and Mr. Peters was struggling with a return of the deplorable shyness which so handicapped him in his dealings with the other sex. After a few moments he pulled himself together again, and, as his first act was to replace the pistol in the pocket of his coat, Billy became conscious of a faint stirring of relief. The great thing, said John Peters, is to learn to draw quickly, like this, he added, producing the revolver with something of the smoothness and rapidity with which Billy, in happier moments, had seen Bre Mortimer take a bowl of goldfish out of a tall hat. Everything depends on getting the first shot. The first shot, Miss Millican, is vital. Suddenly Billy had an inspiration. It was hopeless, she knew, to try to convince this poor demented creature, obsessed with his idae feaks, that she was not Miss Millican. Denial would be a waste of time, and might even infuriate him into precipitating the tragedy. It was imperative that she should humor him, and while she was humoring him, it suddenly occurred to her, why not do it thoroughly? Mr. Peters, she cried, you are quite mistaken. I beg your pardon, said John Peters, with not a little asperity. Nothing of the kind. You are. I assure you, I am not. Quickness in the draw is essential. You have been misinformed. Well, I had it direct from the man at the Rupert Street range, said Mr. Peters stiffly, and if you have ever seen a picture called Two Gun Thomas. Mr. Peters cried Billy desperately.  Mr. Peters, hear me, I am not married to a man at Ealing West. Mr. Peters betrayed no excitement at the information. This girl seemed for some reason to consider her situation an extraordinary one, but many women, he was aware, were in a similar position. In fact, he could not at the moment think of any of his feminine acquaintances who were married to men at Ealing West. Indeed, he said politely. Won't you believe me? explained Billy wildly. Why, certainly, certainly, said John Peters. Thank God, said Billy, I am not even engaged. It has all been a terrible mistake. When two people in a small room are speaking on two distinct and different subjects, and neither knows what on earth the other is driving at, there is bound to be a certain amount of mental confusion. But at this point, John Peters, though still not wholly equal to the intellectual pressure of the conversation, began to see a faint shimmer of light behind the clouds. In a nebulous kind of way he began to understand that the girl had come to consult the firm about a breach of promise action. Some unknown man at Ealing West had been trifling with her heart. Harden Lawyer's clerk as he was, that poignant cry, I am not even engaged, had touched Mr. Peters, and she wished to start proceedings. Mr. Peters felt almost in his depth again. He put the revolver in his pocket and drew out a notebook. I should be glad to hear the facts, he said with professional courtesy, in the absence of the governor. I have told you the facts. This man at Ealing West, said Mr. Peters, moistening the point of his pencil. He wrote you letters proposing marriage? No, no, no. At any rate, said Mr. Peters, disappointed but hopeful. He made love to you before witnesses. Never, never. There is no man at Ealing West. There never was a man at Ealing West. It was at this point that John Peters began for the first time to entertain serious doubts of the girl's mental balance. The most elementary acquaintance with the latest census told him that there were any number of men at Ealing West. The place was full of them. Would a sane woman have made an assertion to the contrary? He thought not, and he was glad that he had the revolver with him. She had done nothing as yet actively violent, but it was nice to feel prepared. He took it out and laid it nonchalantly in his lap. The sight of the weapon acted on Billy electrically. She flung out her hands in a gesture of passionate appeal and played her last card. I love you, she cried. She wished she could have remembered his first name. It would have rounded off the sentence neatly. In such a moment she could hardly call him Mr. Peters. You are the only man I love. My gracious goodness! ejaculated Mr. Peters, and nearly fell over backwards. To a naturally shy man, this sudden and holy unexpected declaration was disconcerting, and the clerk was, moreover, engaged. He blushed violently. And yet, even in that moment of consternation, he could not check a certain thrill. No man thinks he is as plain as he really is, but John Peters had always come fairly near to a correct estimate of his charms, and it had always seemed to him that, in inducing his fiancée to accept him, he had gone some. He now began to wonder if he were not really rather a devil of a chap after all. There must be precious few men going about capable of inspiring devotion like this, on the strength of about six and a half minutes casual conversation. Calmer thoughts succeeded this little flicker of complacency. The girl was mad. That was the fact of the matter. He got up and began to edge towards the door. Mr. Samuel would be returning shortly, and he ought to be warned. So that's all right, isn't it? said Billy. Oh, quite, quite, said Mr. Peters. Er, thank you very much. I thought you would be pleased, said Billy, relieved, but puzzled. For a man of volcanic passions, as Sam Marlowe had described him, he seemed to be taking the thing very calmly. She had anticipated a strenuous scene. Oh, it's a great compliment, Mr. Peters assured her. At this point Sam came in, interrupting the conversation at a moment when it had reached a somewhat difficult stage. He had finished the installment of the serial story in Home Whispers, and looking at his watch he fancied that he had allowed sufficient time to elapse for events to have matured along the lines which his imagination had indicated. The atmosphere of the room seemed to him, as he entered, a little strained. Billy looked pale and agitated. Mr. Peters looked rather agitated, too. Sam caught Billy's eye. It had an unspoken appeal in it. He gave an imperceptible nod, a reassuring nod, the nod of a man who understood all, and was prepared to handle the situation. Come, Peters, he said, in a deep, firm, quiet voice, laying a hand on the clerk's arm. It's time that you went. Yes, indeed, Mr. Samuel. Yes, yes, indeed. I'll see you out, said Sam soothingly, and led him through the outer office and onto the landing outside. Well, good luck, Peters, he said, as they stood at the head of the stairs. I hope you have a pleasant trip. Why, what's the matter? You seem upset. That girl, Mr. Samuel, I really think—really, she cannot be quite right in her head. Nonsense, nonsense, said Sam firmly. She's all right. Well, goodbye. Goodbye, Mr. Samuel. When did you say you were sailing? Next Saturday, Mr. Samuel, but I fear I shall have no opportunity of seeing you again before then. I have packing to do, and I have to see this gentleman down in the country. All right, then we'll say goodbye now. Goodbye, Peters. Mind you have a good time in America. I'll tell my father you called. Sam watched him out of sight down the stairs, then turned and made his way back to the inner office. Billy was sitting limply on the chair which John Peters had occupied. She sprang to her feet. Has he really gone? Yes, he's gone this time. Was he—was he violent? A little, said Sam, a little, but I calmed him down. He looked at her gravely. Thank God I was in time.  There, there, said Sam. There, there. Come, come. It's all right now. There, there, there. He knelt down beside her. He slipped one arm round her waist. He patted her hands. There, there, there, he said. I have tried to draw Samuel Marlowe so that he will live on the printed page. I have endeavored to delineate his character so that it will be as an open book. And if I have succeeded in my task, the reader will by now have become aware that he was a young man with the gall of an army mule. His conscience, if he had ever had one, had become atrophied through long disuse. He had given this sensitive girl the worst fright she had had since a mouse had got into her bedroom at school. He had caused John Peters to totter off to the Rupert Street range, making low, bleeding noises. And did he care? No. All he cared about was the fact that he had erased forever from Billy's mind that undignified picture of himself as he had appeared on the boat, and substituted another which showed him brave, resourceful, gallant. All he cared about was the fact that Billy—so cold ten minutes before—had just allowed him to kiss her for the forty-second time. If you had asked him, he would have said that he had acted for the best, and that out of evil cometh good, or some sickening thing like that. That was the sort of man Samuel Marlowe was. His face was very close to Billy's, who had cheered up wonderfully by this time, and he was whispering his degraded words of endearment into her ear when there was a sort of explosion in the doorway. Quake, godfrey, exclaimed Mr. Rufus Bennett, gazing on the scene from this point of vantage and mopping with a large handkerchief, a scarlet face which, as the result of climbing three flights of stairs, had become slightly soluble. Quake, heavens above! Number four! End of Chapter 13, read in July 2011 in San Diego, California. Mr. Bennett advanced shakily into the room and supported himself with one hand on the desk, while with the other he still applied the handkerchief on his overheated face. Much had occurred to disturb him this morning. On top of a broken night he had had an affecting reconciliation scene with Mr. Mortimer, at the conclusion of which he had decided to take the first train to London in the hope of intercepting Billy before she reached Sir Malaby's office on her mission of war. The local train service kept such indecently early hours that he had been compelled to bolt his breakfast, and, in the absence of Billy, the only member of the household who knew how to drive the car, to walk to the station, a distance of nearly two miles, the last hundred yards of which he had covered at a rapid gallop, under the erroneous impression that an express, whose smoke he had seen in the distance, was the train he had come to catch. Arrived on the platform he had had a trying weight, followed by a slow journey to Waterloo. The cab which he had taken at Waterloo had kept him in a lively state of apprehension all the way to the Savoy, owing to an apparent desire to climb over motor-omnibuses when it could not get round them. At the Savoy he found that Billy had already left, which had involved another voyage through the London traffic under the auspices of a driver who appeared to be either blind or desirous of committing suicide. He had three flights of stairs to negotiate, and finally, arriving at the office, he had found his daughter in the circumstances already described. Why, Father, said Billy, I didn't expect you. As an explanation of her behaviour this might, no doubt, have been considered sufficient, but as an excuse for it, Mr. Bennett thought it inadequate, and would have said so had he had enough breath. This physical limitation caused him to remain speechless, and to do the best he could in the way of stern, fatherly reproof, by puffing like a seal after a long dive in search of fish. Having done this, he became aware that Sam Marlow was moving towards him with outstretched hand. It took a lot to disconcert Sam, and he was the calmest person present. He gave evidence of this in a neat speech. He did not in so many words congratulate Mr. Bennett on the piece of luck which had befallen him, but he tried to make him understand by his manner that he was distinctly to be envied, as the prospective father-in-law of such a one as himself. I am delighted to see you, Mr. Bennett, said Sam. You could not have come at a more fortunate moment. You see for yourself how things are. There is no need for a long explanation. You came to find a daughter, Mr. Bennett, and you have found a son. And he would like to see the man, thought Sam, who could have put it more cleverly and pleasantly and tactfully than that. What are you talking about, said Mr. Bennett, recovering breath? I haven't got a son. I will be a son to you. I will be the prop of your declining years.  He means when they do decline, Father dear, said Billy. Of course, of course, said Sam. When they do decline, not till then, of course, I wouldn't dream of it. But once they do decline, count on me. And I should like to say for my part, he went on handsomely, what an honor I think it, to become the son-in-law of a man like Mr. Bennett. Bennett of New York, he added spaciously. Not so much because he knew what he meant, for he would have been the first to admit that he did not, but because it sounded well. Oh, said Mr. Bennett. You do, do you? Mr. Bennett sat down. He put away his handkerchief, which had certainly earned a rest. Then he fastened a baleful stare upon his newly discovered son. It was not the sort of look a proud and happy father-in-law to be ought to have directed at a prospective relative. It was not, as a matter of fact, the sort of look which anyone ought to have directed at anybody, except possibly an exceptionally prudish judge at a criminal in the dock, convicted of a more than usually atrocious murder. Billy, not being in the actual line of fire, only caught the tail end of it, but it was enough to create a misgiving. Oh, Father, you aren't angry. Angry? You can't be angry. Why can't I be angry? declared Mr. Bennett, with that sense of injury which comes to self-willed men when their whims are thwarted. Why, the devil shouldn't I be angry. I am angry. I come here and find you like this, and you seem to expect me to throw my hat in the air and give three rousing cheers. Of course I am angry. You are engaged to be married to an excellent young man of the highest character, one of the finest young men I have ever known. Oh, well, said Sam, straightening his tie modestly. It's awfully good of you. But that's all over, Father. What's all over?  Well, er, yes, I did, said Mr. Bennett, a little taken aback. That is, to a certain extent so, but, he added with restored firmness, it's on again. But I don't want to marry Bream. Naturally, said Sam, naturally, quite out of the question. In a few days we'll all be roaring with laughter at the very idea. It doesn't matter what you want, a girl who gets engaged to a dozen men in three weeks. It wasn't a dozen. Well, four, five, six, you can't expect me not to lose count. I say a girl who does that does not know what she wants, and older and more prudent heads must decide for her. You are going to marry Bream Mortimer. All wrong, all wrong, said Sam, with a reproving shake of the head. All wrong. She's going to marry me. Mr. Bennett scorched him with a look, compared with which his earlier effort had been a loving glance. Wilhelmina, he said, go into the outer office. But Father Sam saved my life. Go into the outer office and wait for me there. There was a lunatic in here. There will be another if you don't go. He had a pistol. Go into the outer office. I shall always love you, Sam, said Billy, pausing mutinously at the door. I shall always love you, said Sam cordially. Nobody can keep us apart. They're wasting their time trying. You're the most wonderful man in the world. There never was another girl like you. Get out, bellowed Mr. Bennett, on whose equanimity this love scene, which I think beautiful, was jarring profoundly. Now, sir, he said to Sam as the door closed. Yes, let's talk it over calmly, said Sam. I will not talk it over calmly. O come, you can do it if you try. In the first place, whatever put this silly idea into your head about that sweet girl marrying Breem Mortimer. Breem Mortimer is the son of Henry Mortimer. I know, said Sam. And, while it is no doubt unfair to hold that against him, it's a point you can't afford to ignore, Henry Mortimer. You and I have Henry Mortimer's number. We know what Henry Mortimer is like.   Henry Mortimer is my oldest friend. That makes it all the worse. Fancy a man who calls himself your friend treating you like that. The misunderstanding to which you allude has been completely smoothed over. My relations with Mr. Mortimer are thoroughly cordial. Well, have it your own way. Personally, I wouldn't trust a man like that. And, as for letting my daughter marry his son, I have decided once and for all.  I will not take your advice. I wouldn't expect to charge you for it, explained Sam reassuringly. I give it you as a friend, not as a lawyer. Six and eight pence to others, free to you. Will you understand that my daughter is going to marry Brie Mortimer? What are you giggling about? It sounds so silly, the idea of anyone marrying Brie Mortimer, I mean. Let me tell you he is a thoroughly estimable young man. And there you put the whole thing in a nutshell. Your daughter is a girl of spirit. She would hate to be tied for life to an estimable young man. She will do as I tell her. Sam regarded him sternly. Have you no regard for her happiness? I am the best judge of what is best for her. If you ask me, said Sam candidly, I think you're a rotten judge. I did not come here to be insulted. I like that you have been insulting me ever since you arrived. What right have you to say that I'm not fit to marry your daughter? I did not say that. You've implied it, and you've been looking at me as if I were a leper or something the pure food committee had condemned. Why, that's what I ask you, said Sam, warming up. This, he fancied, was the way Wigery would have tackled a troublesome client. Why, answer me that. I... Sam rapped sharply on the desk. Be careful, sir. Sam rapped sharply on the desk. Be careful, sir. Be very careful. He knew that this was what lawyers always said. Of course there is a difference in position between a miscreant, whom you suspect of an attempt at perjury, and the father of the girl you love, whose consent to the match you wish to obtain, but Sam was in no mood for these nice distinctions. He only knew that lawyers told people to be very careful. So he told Mr. Bennet to be very careful. What do you mean be very careful, said Mr. Bennet? I'm dashed if I know, said Sam, frankly. The question struck him as a mean attack. He wondered how Wigery would have met it. Probably by smiling quietly and polishing his spectacles. Sam had no spectacles. He endeavored, however, to smile quietly. Don't laugh at me, roared Mr. Bennet. I'm not laughing at you. You are. I'm not. I'm smiling quietly. Well, don't then, said Mr. Bennet. He glowered at his young companion. I don't know why I'm wasting my time talking to you. The position is clear to the meanest intelligence. I have no objection to you personally. Come, this is better, said Sam. I don't know you well enough to have any objection to you or any opinion of you at all.  Mark you, said Sam. I think I am one of those fellows who grow on people. As far as I am concerned, you simply do not exist. You may be the noblest character in London, or you may be wanted by the police. I don't know, and I don't care. It doesn't matter to me.  I don't know you. You must persevere, said Sam. You must buckle to and get to know me. Don't give the thing up in this half-hearted way. Everything has to have a beginning. Stick to it. And in a week or two you will find yourself knowing me quite well. I don't want to know you. You say that now, but wait. And thank goodness I have not got to, exploded Mr. Bennett, ceasing to be calm and reasonable with a suddenness which affected Sam much as though half a pound of gunpowder had been touched off under his chair. For the little I have seen of you has been quite enough. Kindly understand that my daughter is engaged to be married to another man, and that I do not wish to see or hear anything of you again. I shall try to forget your very existence, and I shall see to it that Wilhelmina does the same.  An impudent scoundrel. I don't like you. I don't wish to see you again. If you were the last man in the world, I wouldn't allow my daughter to marry you. If that is quite clear, I will wish you good morning. Mr. Bennett, thundered out of the room, and Sam, temporarily stunned by the outburst, remained where he was, gaping. A few minutes later life began to return to his palsy limbs. It occurred to him that Mr. Bennett had forgotten to kiss him goodbye, and he went into the outer office to tell him so. But the outer office was empty. Sam stood for a moment in thought, then he returned to the inner office, and, picking up a timetable, began to look out trains to the village of Windelhurst in Hampshire, the nearest station to his aunt Adeline's charming old-world house, Windel's. End of Chapter 14, read by Kara Schellenberg in July 2011, in San Diego, California. Chapter 15 of The Girl on the Boat by P. G. Woodhouse. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 15. Drama at a Country House As I read over the last few chapters of this narrative, I see that I have been giving the reader rather too jumpy a time. To almost a painful degree I have excited his pity and terror, and, though that is what Aristotle says one ought to do, I feel that a little respite would not be out of order. The reader can stand having his emotions tortured up to a certain point. After that he wants to take it easy for a bit. It is with pleasure, therefore, that I turn now to depict a quiet, peaceful scene in domestic life. It won't last long—three minutes, perhaps, by a good stopwatch— but that is not my fault. My task is to record facts, as they happened. The morning sunlight fell pleasantly on the garden of windows, turning it into the green and amber paradise, which nature had intended it to be. A number of the local birds sang melodiously in the undergrowth at the end of the lawn, while others, more energetic, hopped about the grass in quest of worms. Bees, mercifully ignorant that, after they had worked themselves to the bone gathering honey, the proceeds of their labour would be collared and consumed by idle humans, buzzed industriously to and fro, and dived head foremost into flowers. Winged insects danced sarabans in the sunshine. In a deck chair under the cedar tree, Billy Bennett, with a sketching block on her knee, was engaged in drawing a picture of the ruined castle. Beside her, curled up in a ball, lay her pecanese dog Pinky Boodles. Beside Pinky Boodles slept Smith, the bulldog. In the distant stable yard, unseen but audible, a boy in shirt