Sam rose. His heart was light. He had never, of course, supposed that the girl was anything but perfect; but it was nice to find his high opinion of her corroborated by one who had no reason to exhibit her in a favourable light. He understood her point of view and sympathised with it. An idealist, how could she trust herself to Eustace Hignett? How could she be content with a craven who, instead of scouring the world in the quest for deeds of daring do, had fallen down so lamentably on his first assignment? There was a specious attractiveness about poor old Eustace which might conceivably win a girl’s heart for a time; he wrote poetry, talked well, and had a nice singing voice; but, as a partner for life … well, he simply wouldn’t do. That was all there was to it. He simply didn’t add up right. The man a girl like Wilhelmina Bennett required for a husband was somebody entirely different … somebody, felt Samuel Marlowe, much more like Samuel Marlowe.
Swelled almost to bursting-point with these reflections, he went on deck to join the ante-luncheon promenade. He saw Billie almost at once. She had put on one of these nice sacky sport-coats which so enhance feminine charms, and was striding along the deck with the breeze playing in her vivid hair like the female equivalent of a Viking. Beside her walked young Mr. Bream Mortimer.
Sam had been feeling a good deal of a fellow already, but at the sight of her welcoming smile his self-esteem almost caused him to explode. What magic there is in a girl’s smile! It is the raisin which, dropped in the yeast of male complacency, induces fermentation.
“Oh, there you are, Mr. Marlowe!”
“Oh, there you are,” said Bream Mortimer, with a slightly different inflection.
“I thought I’d like a breath of fresh air before lunch,” said Sam.
“Oh, Bream!” said the girl.
“Hello?”
“Do be a darling and take this great heavy coat of mine down to my stateroom will you? I had no idea it was so warm.”
“I’ll carry it,” said Bream.
“Nonsense. I wouldn’t dream of burdening you with it. Trot along and put it on the berth. It doesn’t matter about folding it up.”
“All right,” said Bream moodily.
He trotted along. There are moments when a man feels that all he needs in order to be a delivery wagon is a horse and a driver.
“He had better chirrup to the dog while he’s there, don’t you think?” suggested Sam. He felt that a resolute man with legs as long as Bream’s might well deposit a cloak on a berth and be back under the half-minute.
“Oh, yes! Bream!”
“Hello?”
“While you’re down there just chirrup a little more to poor Pinky. He does appreciate it so!”
Bream disappeared. It is not always easy to interpret emotion from a glance at a man’s back; but Bream’s back looked like that of a man to whom the thought has occurred that, given a couple of fiddles and a piano, he would have made a good hired orchestra.
“How is your dear little dog, by the way?” enquired Sam solicitously, as he fell into step by her side.
“Much better now, thanks. I’ve made friends with a girl on board—did you ever hear her name—Jane Hubbard—she’s a rather well-known big-game hunter and she fixed up some sort of a mixture for Pinky which did him a world of good. I don’t know what was in it except Worcester Sauce, but she said she always gave it to her mules in Africa when they had the botts … it’s very nice of you to speak so affectionately of poor Pinky when he bit you.”
“Animal spirits!” said Sam tolerantly. “Pure animal spirits! I like to see them. But, of course, I love all dogs.”
“Oh, do you? So do I!”
“I only wish they didn’t fight so much. I’m always stopping dog fights.”
“I do admire a man who knows what to do at a dog fight. I’m afraid I’m rather helpless myself. There never seems anything to catch hold of.” She looked down. “Have you been reading? What is the book?”