“If you will kindly,” said Mrs. Hignett impatiently, “postpone this essay in psycho-analysis to some future occasion I shall be greatly obliged. I am waiting to hear the name of the girl my son wishes to marry.”
“Haven’t I told you?” said Mr. Mortimer, surprised. “That’s odd. I haven’t! It’s funny how one doesn’t do the things one thinks one does. I’m the sort of man…”
“What is her name?”
“Bennett.”
“Bennett? Wilhelmina Bennett? The daughter of Mr. Rufus Bennett? The red-haired girl I met at lunch one day at your father’s house?”
“That’s it. You’re a great guesser. I think you ought to stop the thing.”
“I intend to.”
“Fine!”
“The marriage would be unsuitable in every way. Miss Bennett and my son do not vibrate on the same plane.”
“That’s right. I’ve noticed it myself.”
“Their auras are not the same colour.”
“If I’ve thought that once,” said Bream Mortimer, “I’ve thought it a hundred times. I wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve thought it. Not the same colour! That’s the whole thing in a nutshell.”
“I am much obliged to you for coming and telling me of this. I shall take immediate steps.”
“That’s good! But what’s the procedure? How are you going to form a flying-wedge and buck-centre? It’s getting late. She’ll be waiting at the church at eleven. With bells on,” said Mr. Mortimer.
“Eustace will not be there.”
“You think you can fix it?”
“Eustace will not be there,” repeated Mrs. Hignett.
Bream Mortimer hopped down from his chair.
“Well, you’ve taken a weight off my mind.”
“A mind, I should imagine, scarcely constructed to bear great weights.”
“I’ll be going. Haven’t had breakfast yet. Too worried to eat breakfast. Relieved now. This is where three eggs and a rasher of ham get cut off in their prime. I feel I can rely on you.”
“You can!”
“Then I’ll say good-bye.”
“Goodbye.”
“I mean really good-bye. I’m sailing for England on Saturday on the Atlantic.”
“Indeed? My son will be your fellow-traveller.”
Bream Mortimer looked somewhat apprehensive.
“You won’t tell him that I was the one who spilled the beans?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“You won’t wise him up that I threw a spanner into the machinery?”
“I do not understand you.”
“You won’t tell him that I crabbed his act—gave the thing away—gummed the game?”
“I shall not mention your chivalrous intervention.”
“Chivalrous?” said Bream Mortimer doubtfully. “I don’t know that I’d call it absolutely chivalrous. Of course, all’s fair in love and war. Well, I’m glad you’re going to keep my share in the business under your hat. It might have been awkward meeting him on board.”
“You are not likely to meet Eustace on board. He is a very indifferent sailor and spends most of his time in his cabin.”
“That’s good! Saves a lot of awkwardness. Well, good-bye.”
“Goodbye. When you reach England remember me to your father.”
“He won’t have forgotten you,” said Bream Mortimer confidently. He did not see how it was humanly possible for anyone to forget this woman. She was like a celebrated chewing-gum. The taste lingered.
Mrs. Hignett was a woman of instant and decisive action. Even while her late visitor was speaking schemes had begun to form in her mind like bubbles rising to the surface of a rushing river. By the time the door had closed behind Bream Mortimer she had at her disposal no fewer than seven, all good. It took her but a moment to select the best and simplest. She tiptoed softly to her son’s room. Rhythmic snores greeted her listening ears. She opened the door and went noiselessly in.
CHAPTER TWO
The White Star liner Atlantic lay at her pier with steam up and gangway down ready for her trip to Southampton. The hour of departure was near and there was a good deal of mixed activity going on. Sailors fiddled about with ropes. Junior officers flitted to and fro. White-jacketed stewards wrestled with trunks. Probably the captain, though not visible, was also employed on some useful work of a nautical nature and not wasting his time. Men, women, boxes, rugs, dogs, flowers and baskets of fruit were flowing on board in a steady stream.