lled a man to great deeds, a morning
which shouted to him to chuck his chest out and be romantic. The sight
of Billie Bennett, trim and gleaming in a pale green sweater and white
skirt had the effect of causing Marlowe to alter the programme which he
had sketched out. Proposing to this girl was not a thing to be put off
till after lunch. It was a thing to be done now and at once. The finest
efforts of the finest cooks in the world could not put him in better
form than he felt at present.

"Good morning, Miss Bennett."

"Good morning, Mr. Marlowe."

"Isn't it a perfect day?"

"Wonderful!"

"It makes all the difference on board ship if the weather is fine."

"Yes, doesn't it?"

How strange it is that the great emotional scenes of history, one of
which is coming along almost immediately, always begin in this prosaic
way Shakespeare tries to conceal the fact, but there can be little doubt
that Romeo and Juliet edged into their balcony scene with a few remarks
on the pleasantness of the morning.

"Shall we walk round?" said Billie.

Sam glanced about him. It was the time of day when the promenade deck
was always full. Passengers in cocoons of rugs lay on chairs, waiting in
a dull trance till the steward should arrive with the eleven o'clock
soup. Others, more energetic, strode up and down. From the point of view
of a man who wished to reveal his most sacred feelings to a beautiful
girl, the place was practically a tube station during the rush hour.

"It's so crowded," he said. "Let's go on to the upper deck."

"All right. You can read to me. Go and fetch your Tennyson."

Sam felt that fortune was playing into his hands. His four-days'
acquaintance with the bard had been sufficient to show him that the man
was there forty ways when it came to writing about love. You could open
his collected works almost anywhere and shut your eyes and dab down your
finger on some red-hot passage. A proposal of marriage is a thing which
it is rather difficult to bring neatly into the ordinary run of
conversation. It wants leading up to. But, if you once start reading
poetry, especially Tennyson's, almost anything is apt to give you your
cue. He bounded light-heartedly into the state-room, waking Eustace
Hignett from an uneasy dose.

"Now what?" said Eustace.

"Where's that copy of Tennyson you gave me? I left it--ah, here it is.
Well, see you later!"

"Wait! What are you going to do?"

"Oh, that girl I told you about," sai