"Oh, here comes Samson again!" Marise broke in. "Isn't that absolutely the name for him? It jumped into my head when he passed before and gave me that wild sort of look—did you notice?"
"I did," said Severance drily. "I thought you didn't. Your eyes were apparently glued to your gold bag."
"What's the good of being an actress if you can't see two things at once, especially if one of them's the biggest thing on the ship? Nobody could help noticing that—any more than if Mont Blanc suddenly waltzed down stage from off the back drop."
"Waltzed? 'Galumped' is the word in this case."
"Oh, do you think so?" Marise appealed. "He walks like a man used to wide, free spaces."
"Like a farmer, you mean. To my mind, that's his part: Hodge—not Samson."
"I've forgotten what Samson was, I'm ashamed to say, before he played opposite Delilah," confessed Marise. "I suppose he was a warrior—most men were in those days—as now. This might be one—if it weren't for the clothes. They certainly are the limit! But do you know, he could be very distinguished-looking, even handsome, decently turned out?"
"No, I don't know it, my child." Severance beat down his irritation. "The only way I can picture that ugly blighter being decently 'turned out,' is out of a respectable club."
"You talk as if you had a grudge against my provincial Samson," laughed Marise, whose blue eyes had followed the "blighter" along the deck to the point of disappearance.
"I don't want to talk about him at all," protested Severance. "I want to talk about you."