forward and glanced at the tag on the bandbox. [Pg 30] 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 ass 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 space. Round it[Pg 31] were grouped in various attitudes 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. [Pg 31] “Hello!” 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 ship 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.
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