“I don’t either,” he said. “That’s the trouble.”
Mifflin looked interested.
“I know,” he said. “You’ve got that strange premonitory fluttering,
when the heart seems to thrill within you like some baby bird
singing its first song, when–”
“Oh, cut it out!”
“–when you ask yourself timidly, ‘Is it? Can it really be?’ and
answer shyly, ‘No. Yes. I believe it is!’ I’ve been through it
dozens of times; it is a recognized early symptom. Unless prompt
measures are taken, it will develop into something acute. In these
matters, stand on your Uncle Arthur. He knows.”
“You make me sick,” Jimmy retorted.
“You have our ear,” said Mifflin, kindly. “Tell me all.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Don’t lie, James.”
“Well, practically nothing.”
“That’s better.”
“It was like this.”
“Good.”
Jimmy wriggled himself into a more comfortable position, and took a
sip from his glass.
“I didn’t see her until the second day out.”
“I know that second day out. Well?”
“We didn’t really meet at all.”
“Just happened to be going to the same spot, eh?”
“As a matter of fact, it was like this. Like a fool, I’d bought a
second-class ticket.”
“What? Our young Rockerbilt Astergould, the boy millionaire,
traveling second-class! Why?”
“I had an idea it would be better fun. Everybody’s so much more
cheery in the second cabin. You get to know people so much quicker.
Nine trips out of ten, I’d much rather go second.”
“And this was the tenth?”
“She was in the first-cabin,” said Jimmy.
Mifflin clutched his forehead.
“Wait!” he cried. “This reminds me of something–something in
Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet? No. I’ve got it–Pyramus and Thisbe.”
“I don’t see the slightest resemblance.”
“Read your ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream.’ ‘Pyramus and Thisbe,’ says the
story, ‘did talk through the chink of a wall,'” quoted Mifflin.
“We didn’t.”
“Don’t be so literal. You talked across a railing.”
“We didn’t.”
“Do you mean to say you didn’t talk at all?”
“We didn’t say a single word.”
Mifflin shook his head sadly.
“I give you up,” he said. “I thought you were a man of enterprise.
What did you do?”
Jimmy sighed softly.
“I used to stand and smoke against the railing opposite the barber’s
shop, and she used to walk round the deck.”
“And you used to stare at her?”
“I would look in her direction sometimes,” corrected Jimmy, with
dignity.
“Don’t quibble! You stared at her. You behaved like a common rubber-
neck, and you know it. I am no prude, James, but I feel compelled to
say that I consider your conduct that of a libertine. Used she to
walk alone?”
“Generally.”
“And, now, you love her, eh? You went on board that ship happy,
careless, heart-free. You came off it grave and saddened.
Thenceforth, for you, the world could contain but one–woman, and
her you had lost.”
Mifflin groaned in a hollow and bereaved manner, and took a sip from
his glass to buoy him up.
Jimmy moved restlessly on the sofa.
“Do you believe in love at first sight?” he asked, fatuously. He was
in the mood when a man says things, the memory of which makes him
wake up hot all over for nights to come.
“I don’t see what first sight’s got to do with it,” said Mifflin.
“According to your own statement, you stood and glared at the girl
for five days without letting up for a moment. I can quite imagine
that you might glare yourself into love with anyone by the end of
that time.”
“I can’t see myself settling down,” said Jimmy, thoughtfully. “And,
until you feel that you want to settle down, I suppose you can’t be
really in love.”
“I was saying practically that about you at the club just before you
came in. My somewhat neat expression was that you were one of the
gypsies of the world.”
“By George, you’re quite right!”
“I always am.”
“I suppose it’s having nothing to do. When I was on the News, I was
never like this.”
“You weren’t on the News long enough to get tired of it.”
“I feel now I can’t stay in a place more than a week. It’s having
this money that does it, I suppose.”