Presently when the game was over and they sat, all three, side by side upon a bench in the lee of one of the huge ventilator funnels, the younger man spoke up and said he was afraid Miss Cartwright must be getting chilled without a wrap. She insisted that she was perfectly comfortable, but masterfully declaring that she needed better protection for her shoulders than a silken blouse and a light jacket he got up. "I'll just run down and get my grey ulster," he said. "I think I left it in my chair." Leaving uncle and niece together he hurried below. True enough, his grey ulster dangled across the arm of the steamer chair, but after picking it up he made a trip on down to D-deck and spent perhaps a minute in his stateroom with the door closed. No, probably it wasn't more than half a minute that he spent there. At any rate he was back upon the boat deck almost immediately, holding up the coat while Miss Cartwright slipped her arms into the sleeves. All women like to be waited on and most women like to wear masculine garments of one sort or another. He buttoned the collar about her throat and she smiled up at him her appreciation of his thoughtfulness. "Aren't men's overcoats just adorable!" she babbled; "so big and warm and comfy and everything! And they have such lovely big pockets! The very next coat I get is going to be made like a man's, and have some of those nice big pockets in it." She shoved her hands deep into the side pockets in what she fondly conceived to be a mannish manner. "Why, what's this?" she asked. "There's something heavy and jingly in----" She stopped short, for the owner of the ulster was looking at her meaningly and shaking his head as a signal for silence. "What did you say, my dear?" inquired her uncle absently. "Nothing," she answered, but her fingers continued to explore the depths of the pocket, and into her eyes came a half-puzzled, half-excited look. She opened her lips as though to speak, then closed them with an effort. Bronston proposed another go at horse billiards--just a short game before luncheon. Again the Major volunteered to score for them. The game was still going on when Keller appeared. He stopped within easy hailing distance of the trio. "About ready for luncheon?" he called out, addressing Bronston. "Just a minute or so," answered Bronston, and went on showing his pupil how to make a certain shot. Keller took a turn up and down the deck. He felt rather out of the picture somehow. His appetite was active too; trust the North Atlantic air for that. He took a turn or two more, growing hungrier with every step. Five minutes passed, and still the game showed no sign of breaking up. He swung about and approached them. "Say," he said, seeking to put a subtle shade of meaning into his words, "I'd like to go to lunch--if you don't mind."