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Tropical. He had never encountered at such close quarters so scarlet-flowering and rank a growth. The invitation, certainly, was tremendous. Here, close at hand, was the rich jungle—poisonous and naïve, treacherous and rich, with its tenacious creepers, its bright voracious birds, and its fleshlike fruit. Should he enter? He recognized, also, the pressure exerted upon him to do so by the mere fact of the pianist’s presence, the pianist’s prior pursuit and inquisitiveness. His impulse was to compete with the pianist: to be at the same time more tactful, more humorous, and more charming: to snatch the scarlet flower from under his very nose.
    Against all this—ah! the manifold complications! For it was easy to foresee that this girl would be swarmed about by the men on the ship; swarmed about as by flies; would be talked about by every one, sniggeringly—“Yes, sir, she’s a warm baby!”—and would be signally avoided by the women. To attach one’s self to her too publicly—and any attachment would inevitably involve a publicity sufficiently rank—would be to make one’s self conspicuous and a little ridiculous … Smiling, he picked up his book and opened it. He would neither refuse nor accept.
    “Oh well,” he murmured, more to the pianist than to the girl. “We’re all personal on a ship! What else is there to do?”
    “Right!” beamed the pianist. “What the devil can we do if we don’t talk?”
    “Talk!” sneered the vampire. “A lot of good talking does.”
    “What’s wrong with it? There are worse things than talking.”
    “Ha—ha!” She laughed, lifting her throat. This amused her intensely, and she contrived without much subtlety to suggest that it was a little wicked of her to be amused. Her chief means to this end was another rapid green wink at Demarest. “Worse things—I should hope so!”
    The pianist grinned sharply, eager to take her up on this.
    “What do you mean?” he said, leaning toward her.
    “Mean?” She drew back, her face becoming hard and distant. She was rebuking him. The rebuke, however, seemed to grow with difficulty in her mind, and before it had flowered into speech (as for a moment Demarest thought it would) she relented, changed her purpose, and again gave her short empty musical laugh.
    “What’s he talking about?” she said to Demarest. “I mean worse things, that’s all!…”
    “He’s got an evil mind,” said Demarest. “He thought you meant a particular kind of worseness.”
    The girl’s undershot jaw dropped. This was too deep for her.
    “Are you talking English, or am I crazy?”
    “He’s talking Welsh,” the pianist went on … “You haven’t told me your name. I’ll bet it’s Evans or Jones.”
    “No, Davis, Peggy. You can call me Peggy, as we’re old friends.”
    “Help! I’m married already.”
    “ You married?” she cried. “Well, you do look sort of married, come to think of it.”
    “Oh, I say!”
    “Don’t you think so? He has that look—you know, sort of meek.” She gave a hoot behind her handkerchief, gleaming at him askance. “I’ll bet he washes the dishes.” She hooted again.
    The pianist flushed, grinning. “What about you? Are you married, too? I’ll bet you’re married to a dozen!”
    “No, I’m a widow. My husband died last month, in Providence—that’s where we lived.”
    “A widow!… You’re a widow?” The pianist was unembarrassed.
    “Yes. I had a good job too, but my brother thought I’d better come back.”
    “A brother in Wales?”
    “Mm! A miner. Oo, such a fine, big boy. He’s going to meet me at Liverpool.”
    … Abstracting himself from the persistent dialogue, Demarest tried to read. A phrase—a sentence—but the dull dialogue which kept intruding, mingled with shouts and laughter blowing through the open porthole, and the softened sh sh of the sea, prevented him from much concentration. Malvolio, the bar steward, smirking, made a pretense of wiping the table and chairs;