That shut him up for the time being. I went on deck. The Beddingfeld girl was deep in conversation with the missionary parson, Chichester. Women always flutter round parsons.

A man of my figure hates stooping, but I had the courtesy to pick up a bit of paper that was fluttering round the parson’s feet.

I got no word of thanks for my pains. As a matter of fact, I couldn’t help seeing what was written on the sheet of paper. There was just one sentence:

“Don’t try to play a lone hand or it will be the worse for you.”

That’s a nice thing for a parson to have. Who is this fellow Chichester, I wonder? He looks mild as milk. But looks are deceptive. I shall ask Pagett about him. Pagett always knows everything.

I sank gracefully into my deck chair by the side of Mrs. Blair, thereby interrupting her tète-à-tête with Race, and remarked that I didn’t know what the clergy were coming to nowadays.

Then I asked her to dine with me on the night of the fancy-dress dance. Somehow or other Race managed to get included in the invitation.

After lunch the Beddingfeld girl came and sat with us for coffee. I was right about her legs. They are the best on the ship. I shall certainly ask her to dinner as well.

I would very much like to know what mischief Pagett was up to in Florence. Whenever Italy is mentioned, he goes to pieces. If I did not know how intensely respectable he is⁠—I should suspect him of some disreputable amour ⁠ ⁠…