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opened another port, smirked again at the girl; rearranged the brass spittoons, pushing them with his foot; then came and leaned his long black-haired hands (the wrists bony) on the table, the dusting cloth under one palm. He addressed Demarest ingratiatingly.
    “Your friend was looking for you.”
    “My friend?”
    “The old man,” said Malvolio confidentially. “The one you played drafts with. He said he had something particular to say to you.”
    “Oh, did he!”
    “Yes. Something about those two young ladies, I think he said it was.”
    Demarest felt himself blushing. Malvolio, still leaning his long wrists on the table, turned slow, greedy eyes toward Peggy Davis, who returned the look haughtily.
    “Those two young ladies, eh!” pursued the pianist. “Seems to be a lot of young ladies on this ship!”
    The bar steward smiled, gave one formal wipe at the table, and withdrew lightly.
    “Why all the mystery?” inquired Peggy.
    “No mystery. They sit opposite me at meals. Amusing kids—nothing but kids.”
    “Oh, yes—these kids! Traveling alone, I’ll bet—under the chief steward’s protection! Ha ha!” Peggy hooted unctuously—dabbed her mouth—gleamed lasciviously.
    “You seem to know all about it,” said the pianist.
    “Ho! That’ll do for you. You don’t have to do it yourself to know about it.”
    “No?”
    “No … Say, aren’t you impertinent!…”
    Looking at his opened book, Demarest wondered about the old man and the two girls. What was up? Smith had been frank about his interest in them—franker than he himself had been. He found the thought vaguely exciting. Had Smith made advances, taking advantage of the proximity of his cabin to theirs? He hoped Pauline—no … How perfectly ridiculous … Here he was, setting out three thousand miles to see Cynthia, and almost immediately allowing himself to be attracted by the small, impudent, brazen baggage of a vaudeville queen—good God, how disgusting! He flushed, thinking of it. “Off to my love with a boxing glove ten thousand miles away.” Disgusting? No. A pluralistic universe—as plural of morals as of worlds. The magnificent “thickness” of things … A bugle blew just outside the porthole. “Church!” cried Peggy, jumping up. “Don’t go!” the pianist replied holding her hand. She slapped him playfully and departed … Men began coming into the smoking room, evidently from a desire not to be seen on deck during the services. He rose, intending to go out and taste the Sabbath stillness and desertion which he knew would possess the ship at this hour, but as he rose a voice shouted, “Who plays bridge?” and he found himself automatically replying, “I do!” “What’s your name, Mr.——?” “Demarest.” “Mr. Demarest”—the Jew waved a thick hand which hooked a cigar—“Meet Major Kendall, Mr. Hay-Lawrence and myself—Solomon Moses David Menelik Silberstein.” There was a laugh, slightly uneasy, while Silberstein placidly and heavily but with dexterous hands shuffled the cards. “I’m not one of those Jews,” he went on, “who thinks it’s a disgrace to be a Jew. And I always think it a good plan to be explicit on that point—if you’ll forgive my little idiosyncrasy, gentlemen—at the beginning of an acquaintance. It helps to avoid mistakes.”
    “Hear, hear,” said Hay-Lawrence faintly, unfrowning his monocle, which fell on its black cord.
    “I’ve got time for one rubber—or two fast ones … I’m glad I found this nice corner with you gentlemen,”—Silberstein pursued—“cut, please Major—because anything more like a mausoleum than the first cabin is, on this trip, I’ve never even considered possible. Thirteen passengers altogether, of whom half are octogenarians. One old man in a wheel chair sitting in the smoking room being uproariously rowdy all by himself, and half a dozen female century plants sitting as far from each other as they can in the drawing room. They look to me