On her entrance, Arthur stepped on one side.

“I have come to say,” she said, with a slight bow of recognition to the clerk; “that I have changed my mind about my berth, instead of the starboard deck cabin, I should like to have the port.  I think that it will be cooler at this time of year, and also will you please make arrangements for three horses.”

“I am excessively sorry, Mrs. Carr,” the clerk answered; “but the port cabin is engaged—­in fact, this gentleman has just taken it.”

“Oh, in that case”—­with a little blush—­“there is an end of the question.”

“By no means,” interrupted Arthur.  “It is a matter of perfect indifference to me where I go.  I beg that you will take it.”

“Oh, thank you.  You are very good, but I could not think of robbing you of your cabin.”

“I must implore you to do so.  Rather than there should be any difficulty, I will go below.”  And then, addressing the clerk, “Be so kind as to change the cabin.”

“I owe you many thanks for your courtesy,” said Mrs. Carr, with a little curtsey.

Arthur took off his hat.

“Then we will consider that settled.  Good morning, or perhaps I should say au revoir;” and, bowing again, he left the office.

“What is that gentleman’s name?” Mrs. Carr asked, when he was gone.

“Here it is, madam, on the list.  ’Arthur Preston Heigham, passenger to Madeira.’”

“Arthur Preston Heigham!” Mrs. Carr said to herself, as she made her way down to her carriage in Fenchurch Street.  “Arthur is pretty, and Preston is pretty, but I don’t much like Heigham.  At any rate, there is no doubt about his being a gentleman.  I wonder what he is going to Madeira for?  He has an interesting face.  I think I am glad we are going to be fellow-passengers.”

The two days that remained to him in town, Arthur spent in making his preparations for departure; getting money, buying, after the manner of young Englishmen starting on a voyage to foreign parts, a large and fearfully sharp hunting-knife, as though Madeira were the home of wild beasts, and laying in a stock of various other articles of a useless description, such as impenetrable sun-helmets and leather coats.

The boat was to sail at noon on Friday, and on the Thursday evening he left Paddington by the mail that reaches Dartmouth about midnight.  On the pier, he and one or two other fellow-passengers found a boat waiting to take them to the great vessel, that, painted a dull grey, lay still and solemn in the harbour as they were rowed up to her, very different from the active, living thing that she was destined to become within the next twenty-four hours.  The tide ebbing past her iron sides, the fresh, strong smell of the sea, the tall masts pointing skywards like gigantic fingers, the chime of the bell upon the bridge, the sleepy steward, and the stuffy cabin, were all a pleasant variation from the every-day monotony of existence,