It was the level voice of J. B. Midgeley, the steward. The stewards of
the White Star Line, besides being the civillest and most obliging body
of men in the world, all have soft and pleasant voices. A White Star
steward, waking you up at six-thirty, to tell you that your bath is
ready, when you wanted to sleep on till twelve, is the nearest human
approach to the nightingale.

"A what?"

"A note, sir."

Sam jumped up and switched on the light. He went to the door and took
the note from J. B. Midgeley, who, his mission accomplished, retired in
an orderly manner down the passage. Sam looked at the letter with a
thrill. He had never seen the hand-writing before, but, with the eye of
love, he recognized it. It was just the sort of hand he would have
expected Billie to write, round and smooth and flowing, the writing of a
warm-hearted girl. He tore open the envelope.

"Please come up to the top deck. I want to speak to you."

Sam could not disguise it from himself that he was a little
disappointed. I don't know if you see anything wrong with the letter,
but the way Sam looked at it was that, for a first love-letter, it
might have been longer and perhaps a shade warmer. And, without running
any risk of writer's cramp, she might have signed it.

However, these were small matters. No doubt she had been in a hurry and
all that sort of thing. The important point was that he was going to