“The trouble is,” Staff interrupted, “I want the whole room.”
“Oh!... Friend with you?”
“No; but I had some notion of doing a little work on the way over.”
“Writing? I see. But if that’s all—!” Mr. Iff routed a negligible quibble with an airy flirt of his delicate hand. “Trust me; you’ll hardly ever be reminded of my existence—I’m that quiet. And besides, I spend most of my time in the smoking-room. And I don’t snore, and I’m never seasick.... By the way,” he added anxiously, “do or are you?”
“Never—”
“Then we’ll get along famously. I’ll cheerfully take the upper, and even should I tumble out on top of you, you’d never know it: my weight is nothing—hardly that. Now what d’ you say? Is it a go?”
“But—I don’t know you—”
“Business of making a noise like an Englishman!” commented Mr. Iff with bitter scorn.
“—well enough to accept such a favour from you. I’ll take second choice myself—the upper, I mean.”
“You won’t; but we’ll settle that on shipboard,” said Mr. Iff promptly. “As for knowing me—business of introducing myself. Mr. Staff, I want you to shake hands with my friend, Mr. Iff. W. H. Iff, Whiff: sometimes so-called: merry wheeze based on my typographical make-up; once a joke, now so grey with age I generally pull it myself, thus saving new acquaintances the mental strain. Practical philanthropy—what? Whim of mine.”