_Em._: Fate! Nothing of the sort; it’s only me. You men are always such fatalists. I deferred my departure three whole weeks, in order to come out in the same boat that I saw you were travelling by. I bribed the steward to put out chairs side by side in an unfrequented corner, and I took enormous pains to be looking particularly attractive this morning, and then you say “This is fate.” I am looking particularly attractive, am I not? _Maj._: More than ever. Time has only added a ripeness to your charms. _Em._: I knew you’d put it exactly in those words. The phraseology of love-making is awfully limited, isn’t it? After all, the chief charm is in the fact of being made love to. You _are_ making love to me, aren’t you? _Maj._: Emily dearest, I had already begun making advances, even before you sat down here. I also bribed the steward to put our seats together in a secluded corner. “You may consider it done, sir,” was his reply. That was immediately after breakfast. _Em._: How like a man to have his breakfast first. I attended to the seat business as soon as I left my cabin. _Maj._: Don’t be unreasonable. It was only at breakfast that I discovered your blessed presence on the boat. I paid violent and unusual attention to a flapper all through the meal in order to make you jealous. She’s probably in her cabin writing reams about me to a fellow-flapper at this very moment. _Em._: You needn’t have taken all that trouble to make me jealous, Dickie. You did that years ago, when you married another woman. _Maj._: Well, you had gone and married another man—a widower, too, at that. _Em._: Well, there’s no particular harm in marrying a widower, I suppose. I’m ready to do it again, if I meet a really nice one. _Maj._: Look here, Emily, it’s not fair to go at that rate. You’re a lap ahead of me the whole time. It’s my place to propose to you; all you’ve got to do is to say “Yes.” _Em._: Well, I’ve practically said it already, so we needn’t dawdle over that part. _Maj._: Oh, well— (They look at each other, then suddenly embrace with considerable energy.) _Maj._: We dead-heated it that time. (Suddenly jumping to his feet) Oh, d--- I’d forgotten! _Em._: Forgotten what? _Maj._: The children. I ought to have told you. Do you mind children? _Em._: Not in moderate quantities. How many have you got? _Maj._ (counting hurriedly on his fingers): Five. _Em._: Five! _Maj._ (anxiously): Is that too many? _Em._: It’s rather a number. The worst of it is, I’ve some myself. _Maj._: Many? _Em._: Eight. _Maj._: Eight in six years! Oh, Emily! _Em._: Only four were my own. The other four were by my husband’s first marriage. Still, that practically makes eight.