already in the cabin, and it seemed to take up the entire fairway. Still, after all, Eustace was a good sort, and would be a cheerful companion. And Sam realised that if the girl with the red hair was not a passenger on the boat, he was going to have need of diverting society. A footstep sounded in the passage outside. The door opened. “Hullo, Eustace!” said Sam. Eustace Hignett nodded listlessly, sat down on his bag, and emitted a deep sigh. He was a small, fragile-looking young man with a pale, intellectual face. Dark hair fell in a sweep over his forehead. He looked like a man who would write vers libre, as indeed he did. “Hullo!” he said, in a hollow voice. Sam regarded him blankly. He had not seen him for some years, but, going by his recollections of him at the University, he had expected something cheerier than this. In fact, he had rather been relying on Eustace to be the life and soul of the party. The man sitting on the bag before him could hardly have filled that role at a gathering of Russian novelists. “What on earth’s the matter?” said Sam. “The matter?” Eustace Hignett laughed mirthlessly. “Oh, nothing. Nothing much. Nothing to signify. Only my heart’s broken.” He eyed with considerable malignity the bottle of water in the rack above his head, a harmless object provided by the White Star Company for clients who might desire to clean their teeth during the voyage. “If you would care to hear the story...?” he said. “Go ahead.” “It is quite short.” “That’s good.” “Soon after I arrived in America, I met a girl....” “Talking of girls,” said Sam with enthusiasm, “I’ve just seen the only one in the world that really amounts to anything. It was like this. I was shoving my way through the mob on the dock, when suddenly....” “Shall I tell you my story, or will you tell yours?” “Oh, sorry! Go ahead.” Eustace Hignett scowled at the printed notice on the wall, informing occupants of the state-room that the name of their steward was J. B. Midgeley.
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