Late that night, Staff drifted into the smoking-room, which he found
rather sparsely patronised. This fact surprised him no less than its
explanation: it was after eleven o'clock. He had hardly realised the
flight of time, so absorbed had he been all evening in argument with
Alison Landis.
There remained in the smoking-room, at this late hour, but half a dozen
detached men, smoking and talking over their nightcaps, and one table of
bridge players--in whose number, of course, there was Mr. Iff.
Nodding abstractedly to the little man, Staff found a quiet corner and
sat him down with a sigh and a shake of his head that illustrated
vividly his frame of mind. He was a little blue and more than a little
distressed. And this was nothing but natural, since he was still in the
throes of the discovery that one man can hardly with success play the
dual role of playwright and sweetheart to a successful actress.
Alison was charming, he told himself, a woman incomparable, tenderly
sweet and desirable; and he loved her beyond expression. But ... his
play was also more than a slight thing in his life. It meant a good deal
to him; he had worked hard and put the best that was in him into its
making; and hard as the work had been, it had been a labour of love. He
wasn't a man to overestimate his ability; he possessed a singularly sane
and clear appreciation of the true value of his work, harbouring no
illusions as to his real status either as dramatist or novelist. But at
the same time, he knew when he had done good work. And _A Single Woman_
promised to be a good play, measured by modern standards: not great, but
sound and clear and strong. The plot was of sufficient originality to
command attention; the construction was clear, sane, inevitable; he had
mixed the elements of comedy and drama with the deftness of a sure hand;
and he had carefully built up the characters in true proportion to one
another and to their respective significance in the action.
Should all this then, be garbled and distorted to satisfy a woman's
passion for the centre of the stage? Must he be untrue to the
fundamentals of dramaturgic art in order to earn her tolerance? Could
he gain his own consent to present to the public as work representative
of his fancy the misshapen monstrosity which would inevitably result of
yielding to Alison's insistence?
Small wonder that he sighed and wagged a doleful head!
Now while all this was passing through a mind wrapped in gloomy and
profound abstraction, Iff's voice disturbed him.
"Pity the poor playwright!" it said in accents of amusement.
Looking up, Staff discovered that the little man stood before him, a
furtive twinkle in his pale blue eyes. The bridge game had broken up,
and they two were now alone in the smoking-room--saving the presence of
a steward yawning sleepily and wishing to 'Eaven they'd turn in and give
'im a charnce to snatch a wink o' sleep.
"Hello," said Staff, none too cordially. "What d' you mean by that?"
"Hello," responded Iff, dropping upon the cushioned seat beside him. He
snapped his fingers at the steward. "Give it a name," said he.
Staff gave it a name. "You don't answer me," he persisted. "Why pity the
poor playwright?"
"He has his troubles," quoth Mr. Iff cheerfully, if vaguely. "Need I
enumerate them, to you? Anyway, if the poor playwright isn't to be
pitied, what right 've you got to stick round here looking like that?"
"Oh!" Staff laughed uneasily. "I was thinking...."
"I flattered you to the extent of surmising as much." Iff elevated one
of the glasses which had just been put before them. "Chin-chin," said
he--"that is, if you've no particular objection to chin-chinning with a
putative criminal of the d'p'st dye?"
"None whatever," returned Staff, lifting his own glass--"at least, not
so long as it affords me continued opportunity to watch him cooking up
his cunning little crimes."
"Ah!" cried Iff with enthusiasm--"there spoke the true spirit of
Sociological Research. Long may you rave!"
He set down an empty glass.
Staff laughed, sufficiently diverted to forget his troubles for the time
being.
"I wish I could make you out," he said slowly, eyeing the older man.
"You mean you hope I'm not going to take you in."
"Either way--or both: please yourself."
"Ah!" said the little man appreciatively--"I am a deep one, ain't I?"
He laid a finger alongside his nose and looked unutterably enigmatic.
At this point they were interrupted: a man burst into the smoking-room
from the deck and pulled up breathing heavily, as if he had been
running, while he raked the room with quick, enquiring glances. Staff
recognised Mr. Manvers, the purser, betraying every evidence of a
disturbed mind. At the same moment, Manvers caught sight of the pair in
the corner and made for them.
"Mr. Ismay--" he began, halting before their table and glaring gloomily
at Staff's companion.
"I beg your pardon," said the person addressed, icily; "my name is Iff."
Manvers made an impatient movement with one hand. "Iff or Ismay--it's
all one to me--to you too, I fancy--"
"One moment!" snapped Iff, rising. "If you were an older man," he said
stiffly, "and a smaller, I'd pull your impertinent nose, sir! As things
stand, I'd probably get my head punched if I did."
"That's sound logic," returned Manvers with a sneer.
"Well, then, sir? What do you want with me?"
Manvers changed his attitude to one of sardonic civility. "The captain
sent me to ask you if you would be kind enough to step up to his cabin,"
he said stiltedly. "May I hope you will be good enough to humour him?"
"Most assuredly," Iff picked up his steamer-cap and set it jauntily upon
his head. "Might one enquire the cause of all this-here fluster?"
"I daresay the captain--"
"Oh, very well. If you won't talk, my dear purser, I'll hazard a shrewd
guess--by your leave."