"I beg your pardon," said the older woman, without the faintest trace of embarrassment,—indeed, with some asperity,—"I think you are occupying one of our chairs."
He scrambled out of the steamer rug and came to his feet, blushing to the roots of his hair.
"I beg your pardon," he stammered, and found his awkwardness rewarded by an extremely sweet smile—in the eyes of the one he addressed.
"We were looking for a letter that I am quite sure was left in my chair," said she.
"A letter?" he murmured vaguely, and at once began to search with his eyes.
"From her father," volunteered the elderly one, as if it were a necessary bit of information. Then she jerked the rug away and three pairs of eyes examined the place where R. Schmidt had been reclining. "That's odd. Did you happen to see it when you sat down, sir?"
"I am confident that there was no letter—" began he, and then allowed his gaze to rest on the name-card at the top of the chair. "This happens to be my chair, madam," he went on, pointing to the card. "'R. Schmidt.' I am very sorry."
"The steward must have put that card there while you were at luncheon, dear. What right has he to sell our chairs over again? I shall report this to the Captain—"
"I am quite positive that this is my chair, sir," said the girl, a spot of red in each cheek. "It was engaged two days ago. I have been occupying it since—but it really doesn't matter. It has your name on it now, so I suppose I shall have to—"
"Not at all," he made haste to say. "It's yours. There has been some miserable mistake. These deck stewards are always messing things up. Still, it is rather a mystery about the letter. I assure you I saw no—"