"I hope you won't mind my introducing myself," I said. "I am the second officer of the Neptune, and I think that you are one of our passengers."
A slight but charmingly graceful movement of her head encouraged me to take the vacant seat beside her.
"My name," I added, "is Dryden—John Dryden—the same as the poet."
She looked at me with a faint gleam of amusement still lurking in the depths of her beautiful brown eyes.
"I know you by sight, Mr. Dryden," she said. "I have seen you on the ship." Then she paused. "You must be proud of your name," she added. "It is a very distinguished one."
"It was very nearly extinguished just now," I replied. "At least, judging by what I could understand of the conductor's remarks."
She laughed softly—a low musical laugh that gave me a curious little stab of pleasure.
"One can't blame him," she remarked. "You must be a dreadfully heavy weight to come down suddenly upon anyone's toe."
I could hardly explain to her the real reason for my clumsiness, so I took refuge in a piece of shameless dishonesty.
"I was in a hurry," I explained. "I had been talking to some friends in the English Club, and I suddenly realised I should only just have time to get back. Hence the catastrophe!"