"Oh, do you? So do I!"
"I only wish they didn't fight so much. I'm always stopping dog fights."
"I do admire a man who knows what to do at a dog fight. I'm afraid I'm rather helpless myself. There never seems anything to catch hold of." She looked down. "Have you been reading? What is the book?"
"It's a volume of Tennyson."
"Are you fond of Tennyson?"
"I worship him," said Sam reverently. "Those--" he glanced at his cuff--"those Idylls of the King! I do not like to think what an ocean voyage would be if I had not my Tennyson with me."
"We must read him together. He is my favourite poet!"
"We will! There is something about Tennyson...."
"Yes, isn't there! I've felt that myself so often!"
"Some poets are whales at epics and all that sort of thing, while others call it a day when they've written something that runs to a couple of verses, but where Tennyson had the bulge was that his long game was just as good as his short. He was great off the tee and a marvel with his chip-shots."
"That sounds as though you played golf."
"When I am not reading Tennyson, you can generally find me out on the links. Do you play?"
"I love it. How extraordinary that we should have so much in common. We really ought to be great friends."
He was pausing to select the best of three replies when the lunch bugle sounded.
"Oh, dear!" she cried. "I must rush. But we shall see one another again up here afterwards?"
"We will," said Sam.
"We'll sit and read Tennyson."
"Fine! Er--you and I and Mortimer?"
"Oh, no, Bream is going to sit down below and look after poor Pinky."
"Does he--does he know he is?"
"Not yet," said Billie. "I'm going to tell him at lunch."