Part 4 (2/2)

”But, sir,” pleaded the accused, ”this belongs to this lidy 'ere. I'm just tikin' it to 'er st.i.teroom, sir.”

Staff's gaze followed the man's nod, and for the first time he became aware that a young woman stood a step or two above them, half turned round to attend to the pa.s.sage, her air and expression seeming to indicate a combination of amus.e.m.e.nt and impatience.

Precipitately the young man removed his hat. Through the confusion clouding his thoughts, he both foreglimpsed humiliation and was dimly aware of a personality of force and charm: of a well-poised figure cloaked in a light pongee travelling-wrap; of a face that seemed to consist chiefly in dark eyes glowing lambent in the shadow of a wide-brimmed, flopsy hat. He was sensitive to a hint of breeding and reserve in the woman's att.i.tude; as though (he thought) the contretemps diverted and engaged her more than he did who was responsible for it.

He addressed her in a diffident and uncertain voice: ”I beg pardon....”

”The box is mine,” she affirmed with a cool and even gravity. ”The steward is right.”

He choked back a counterclaim, which would have been unmannerly, and in his embarra.s.sment did something that he instantly realised was even worse, approaching downright insolence in that it demanded confirmation of her word: he bent forward and glanced at the tag on the bandbox.

It was labelled quite legibly with the name of Miss Eleanor Searle.

He coloured, painfully contrite. ”I'm sorry,” he stammered.

”I--ah--happen to have with me the precise duplicate of this box. I didn't at first realise that it might have a--ah--twin.”

The young woman inclined her head distantly.

”I understand,” she said, turning away. ”Come, steward, if you please.”

”I'm very sorry--very,” Staff said hastily in intense mortification.

Miss Searle did not reply; she had already resumed her upward progress.

Her steward followed, openly grinning.

Since it is not considered good form to kick a steward for knowing an a.s.s when he meets one, Staff could no more than turn away, disguise the unholy emotions that fermented in his heart, and seek his stateroom.

”It _had_ to be me!” he groaned.

Stateroom 432-433 proved to be very much occupied when he found it--chiefly, to be sure, by the bandbox, which took up most of the floor s.p.a.ce. Round it were grouped in various att.i.tudes of dejection sundry other pieces of travelling-gear and Mr. Iff. The latter was sitting on the edge of the lower berth, his hands in his pockets, his brow puckered with perplexity, his gaze fixed in fascination to the bandbox. On Staff's entrance he looked up.

”h.e.l.lo!” he said crisply.

”Afternoon,” returned Staff with all the morose dignity appropriate to severely wounded self-esteem.

Iff indicated the bandbox with a delicate gesture.

”No wonder,” he observed mildly, ”you wanted the s.h.i.+p to yourself.”

Staff grunted irritably and, picking his way through and over the mound of luggage, deposited himself on the transom opposite the berths.

”A present for the missis, I take it?” pursued Iff.

”You might take it, and welcome, for all of me.... Only it isn't mine.

_And_ I am not married.”

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