She was drooping towards him. Her face was very sweet and tender, her eyes misty. He slid an arm about her waist. She raised her lips to his. § 3 Suddenly she drew herself away, a cloud on her face. “Darling,” she said, “I’ve a confession to make.” “A confession? You? Nonsense!” “I can’t get rid of a horrible thought. I was wondering if this will last.” “Our love? Don’t be afraid that it will fade ... I mean ... why, it’s so vast, it’s bound to last ... that is to say, of course it will.” She traced a pattern on the deck with her shoe. “I’m afraid of myself. You see, once before—and it was not so very long ago,—I thought I had met my ideal, but....” Sam laughed heartily. “Are you worrying about that absurd business of poor old Eustace Hignett?” She started violently. “You know!” “Of course! He told me himself.” “Do you know him? Where did you meet him?” “I’ve known him all my life. He’s my cousin. As a matter of fact, we are sharing a state-room on board now.” “Eustace is on board! Oh, this is awful! What shall I do when I meet him?” “Oh, pass it off with a light laugh and a genial quip. Just say: ‘Oh, here you are!’ or something. You know the sort of thing.” “It will be terrible.” “Not a bit of it. Why should you feel embarrassed? He must have realised by now that you acted in the only possible way. It was absurd his ever expecting you to marry him. I mean to say, just look at it dispassionately ... Eustace ... poor old Eustace ... and _you!_ The Princess and the Swineherd!” “Does Mr. Hignett keep pigs?” she asked, surprised. “I mean that poor old Eustace is so far below you, darling, that, with the most charitable intentions, one can only look on his asking you to marry him in the light of a record exhibition of pure nerve. A dear, good fellow, of course, but hopeless where the sterner realities of life are concerned. A man who can’t even stop a dog-fight! In a world which is practically one seething mass of fighting dogs, how could you trust yourself to such a one? Nobody is fonder of Eustace Hignett than I am, but ... well, I mean to say!” “I see what you mean. He really wasn’t my ideal.” “Not by a mile!” She mused, her chin in her hand. “Of course, he was quite a dear in a lot of ways.” “Oh, a splendid chap,” said Sam tolerantly. “Have you ever heard him sing? I think what first attracted me to him was his beautiful voice. He really sings extraordinarily well.” A slight but definite spasm of jealousy afflicted Sam. He had no objection to praising poor old Eustace within decent limits, but the conversation seemed to him to be confining itself too exclusively to one subject. “Yes?” he said. “Oh yes, I’ve heard him sing. Not lately. He does drawing-room ballads and all that sort of thing still, I suppose?” “Have you ever heard him sing ‘My love is like a glowing tulip that in an old-world garden grows’?”