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 that one had ever heard of before. I'm afraid you're our only celebrity, Mr. Ogle."

Ogle laughed deprecatingly. "That's not always an enviable situation to be in. Conspicuousness isn't invariably pleasant, you know; but I'm afraid you're right about our fellow-passengers. I stopped in the lounge for a moment a little while ago; they appeared to be all there and it was rather a well-dressed but unstimulating assemblage—the men drinking tea unwillingly, I thought, but both women and men glad to listen to the obviousness of Puccini. This seems better up here. One isn't deafened, and the room itself is rather well done—for this sort of thing, at least. I mean the panelling and the windows aren't bad."

"No," Mr. Jones agreed. "They're rather good; not bad at all—though of course, as you say, for this sort of thing. And the quiet is really pleasant."

"Quiet?" Macklyn repeated inquiringly, and he set down his glass upon a tabouret before him. "Dear me! I'm afraid it isn't going to be. Listen."

At the lower end of the room an open door offered a view of the after deck and of the vessel's turbulent wake, a white foaming canal dividing the blue ocean almost: to the horizon. Macklyn made a gesture in