the confusion
clouding his thoughts, he both foreglimpsed humiliation and was dimly
aware of a personality of force and charm: of a well-poised figure
cloaked in a light pongee travelling-wrap; of a face that seemed to
consist chiefly in dark eyes glowing lambent in the shadow of a
wide-brimmed, flopsy hat. He was sensitive to a hint of breeding and
reserve in the woman's attitude; as though (he thought) the contretemps
diverted and engaged her more than he did who was responsible for it.

He addressed her in a diffident and uncertain voice: "I beg pardon...."

"The box is mine," she affirmed with a cool and even gravity. "The
steward is right."

He choked back a counterclaim, which would have been unmannerly, and in
his embarrassment did something that he instantly realised was even
worse, approaching downright insolence in that it demanded confirmation
of her word: he bent forward and glanced at the tag on the bandbox.

It was labelled quite legibly with the name of Miss Eleanor Searle.

He coloured, painfully contrite. "I'm sorry," he stammered.
"I--ah--happen to have with me the precise duplicate of this box. I
didn't at first realise that it might have a--ah--twin."

The young woman inclined her head distantly.

"I understand," she said, turning away. "Come, steward, if you please."

"I'm very sorry--very," Staff said hastily in intense mortification.

Miss Searle did not reply; she had already resumed her upward progress.
Her steward followed, openly grinning.

Since it is not considered good form to kick a steward for knowing an
ass when he meets one, Staff could no more than turn away, disguise the
unholy emotions that fermented in his heart, and seek his stateroom.

"It _had_ to be me!" he groaned.

Stateroom 432-433 proved to be very much occupied when he found
it--chiefly, to be sure, by the bandbox, which took up most of the floor
space. Round it were grouped in various attitudes of dejection sundry
other pieces of travelling-gear and Mr. Iff. The latter was sitting on
the edge of the lower berth, his hands in his pockets, his brow puckered
with perplexity, his gaze fixed in fascination to the bandbox. On
Staff's entrance he looked up.

"Hello!" he said crisply.

"Afternoon," returned Staff with all the morose dignity appropriate to
severely wounded self-esteem.

Iff indicated the bandbox with a delicate gesture.

"No wonder," he observed mildly, "you wanted the ship to yourself."

Staff