CHAPTER FOUR


It was the fourth morning of the voyage. Of course, when this story is
done in the movies they won't be satisfied with a bald statement like
that; they will have a Spoken Title or a Cut-Back Sub-Caption or
whatever they call the thing in the low dens where motion-picture
scenario-lizards do their dark work, which will run:--

AND SO, CALM AND GOLDEN, THE DAYS WENT
BY, EACH FRAUGHT WITH HOPE AND YOUTH
AND SWEETNESS, LINKING TWO YOUNG
HEARTS IN SILKEN FETTERS FORGED BY THE
LAUGHING LOVE-GOD.

and the males in the audience will shift their chewing gum to the other
cheek and take a firmer grip of their companions' hands and the man at
the piano will play "Everybody wants a key to my cellar" or something
equally appropriate, very soulfully and slowly, with a wistful eye on
the half-smoked cigarette which he has parked on the lowest octave and
intends finishing as soon as the picture is over. But I prefer the
plain frank statement that it was the fourth day of the voyage. That is
my story and I mean to stick to it.

Samuel Marlowe, muffled in a bathrobe, came back to the stateroom from
his tub. His manner had the offensive jauntiness of the man who has had
a cold bath when he might just as easily have had a hot one. He looked
out of the porthole at the shimmering sea. He felt strong and happy and
exuberant.