That latter, seizing the situation, glanced askance at dignified Mr. Staff, then smiled a whimsical smile, cocked his small head to one side and approached him with an open and ingenuous air. "If it's only a question of which berth," said he, "I'm quite willing to forfeit my option on the lower, Mr. Staff." That gentleman started and stared. "Oh, lord, man!" said Iff tolerantly--"as if your portrait hadn't been published more times than you can remember!--as if all the world were unaware of Benjamin Staff, novelist!" There was subtle flattery in this; and flattery (we are told) will warm the most austere of authors--which Staff was not. He said "Oh!" and smiled his slow, wry smile; and Mr. Iff, remarking these symptoms of a thaw with interest and encouragement, pressed his point. "I don't mind an upper, really--only chose the lower because the choice was mine, at the moment. If you prefer it--" "The trouble is," Staff interrupted, "I want the whole room." "Oh!... Friend with you?" "No; but I had some notion of doing a little work on the way over." "Writing? I see. But if that's all--!" Mr. Iff routed a negligible quibble with an airy flirt of his delicate hand. "Trust me; you'll hardly ever be reminded of my existence--I'm _that_ quiet. And besides, I spend most of my time in the smoking-room. And I don't snore, and I'm never seasick.... By the way," he added anxiously, "do or are you?" "Never--" "Then we'll get along famously. I'll cheerfully take the upper, and even should I tumble out on top of you, you'd never know it: my weight is nothing--hardly that. Now what d' you say? Is it a go?" "But--I don't know you--" "Business of making a noise like an Englishman!" commented Mr. Iff with bitter scorn. "--well enough to accept such a favour from you. I'll take second choice myself--the upper, I mean." "You won't; but we'll settle that on shipboard," said Mr. Iff promptly. "As for knowing me--business of introducing myself. Mr. Staff, I want you to shake hands with my friend, Mr. Iff. W. H. Iff, Whiff: sometimes so-called: merry wheeze based on my typographical make-up; once a joke, now so grey with age I generally pull it myself, thus saving new acquaintances the mental strain. Practical philanthropy--what? Whim of mine." "Indeed?" "Believe _me_. You've no notion how folks suffer in the first throes of that giddy pun. And then when it falls flat--naturally _I_ can't laugh like a fool at it any longer--_blooie!_" said Mr. Iff with expression--"like that--_blooie!_--they _do_ feel so cheap. Wherefore I maintain I do humanity a service when I beat it to that moth-eaten joke. You follow me?" Staff laughed. "Then it's all settled. Good! We shan't be in one another's way. You'll see." "Unless you talk in your sleep, too." Mr. Iff looked unspeakable reproach. "You'll soon get accustomed to me," he said, brightening--"won't mind my merry prattle any more 'n the song of a giddy humming-bird."