Guy Pagett struggled up on deck after we left Madeira and began babbling in a hollow voice about work. What the devil does anyone want to work for on board ship? It is true that I promised my publishers my reminiscences early in the summer, but what of it? Who really reads reminiscences? Old ladies in the suburbs. And what do my reminiscences amount to? I’ve knocked against a certain number of so-called famous people in my lifetime. With the assistance of Pagett, I invent insipid anecdotes about them. And, the truth of the matter is, Pagett is too honest for the job. He won’t let me invent anecdotes about the people I might have met but haven’t.

I tried kindness with him.

“You look a perfect wreck still, my dear chap,” I said easily. “What you need is a deck chair in the sun. No⁠—not another word. The work must wait.”

The next thing I knew he was worrying about an extra cabin. “There’s no room to work in your cabin, Sir Eustace. It’s full of trunks.”

From his tone, you might have thought that trunks were blackbeetles, something that had no business to be there.

I explained to him that, though he might not be aware of the fact, it was usual to take a change of clothing with one when travelling. He gave the wan smile with which he always greets my attempts at humour, and then reverted to the business in hand.

“And we could hardly work in my little hole.”

I know Pagett’s “little holes”⁠—he usually has the best cabin on the ship.

“I’m sorry the captain didn’t turn out for you this time,” I said sarcastically. “Perhaps you’d like to dump some of your extra luggage in my cabin?”

Sarcasm is dangerous with a man like Pagett. He brightened up at once.

“Well, if I could get rid of the typewriter and the stationery trunk⁠—”