In this printed line on the programme there
was nothing to indicate the nature or scope of the imitation which this
S. Marlowe proposed to inflict upon them. They could only sit and wait
and hope that it would be short.
There was a sinking of hearts as Eustace Hignett moved down the room
and took his place at the piano. A pianist! This argued more singing.
The more pessimistic began to fear that the imitation was going to be
one of those imitations of well-known opera artistes which, though
rare, do occasionally add to the horrors of ships' concerts. They
stared at Hignett apprehensively. There seemed to them something
ominous in the man's very aspect. His face was very pale and set, the
face of one approaching a task at which his humanity shudders. They
could not know that the pallor of Eustace Hignett was due entirely to
the slight tremor which, even on the calmest nights, the engines of an
ocean liner produce in the flooring of a dining saloon and to that
faint, yet well-defined, smell of cooked meats which clings to a room
where a great many people have recently been eating a great many meals.
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