I fix things in my memory
that way. And maybe when I've got it straight in my head
I'll--er--mention it to a man I know."
As the playwright was shivering, he obeyed with alacrity; and in the
warmth of the smoking-room revelled in the picture of his tame
capitalist pacing a cold deck, lost to the sea's welter in thoughts of
that marvellous last act.
But it was a first act which was engaging Peter Rolls's attention, and
he, though the only male character in it (by choice), had to learn his
part as he went on.
The play began by his joining the leading lady. (This has been done
before, but seldom with such a lurch and on such sloping boards.)
It would have been a mockery to say "good evening" on a night so vile,
and Mr. Rolls began by asking Miss Child if he might walk with her.
"Or tango," said she. "This deck is teaching me some wonderful new
steps."
"I wish you'd teach them to me," said Peter.
"I can't, but the ship can."
"Did you ever dance the tango?" he wanted to know.
"Yes. In another state of existence."
This silenced him for an instant. Then he skipped at least two
speeches ahead, whither his thoughts had flown.
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