"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.
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