Then a sharp squall of rain broke, but she entirely ignored the rain.

The next moment Miss Ingate and Audrey, rushing forth, had gently seized her and drawn her into their cabin.  They might have succoured other martyrs to the modern passion for moving about, for there were many; but they chose this particular martyr because she was so wondrously dressed, and also perhaps a little because she was so young.  As she lay on the cabin sofa she looked still younger; she looked a child.  Yet when Miss Ingate removed her gloves in order to rub those chill, fragile, and miraculously manicured hands, a wedding ring was revealed.  The wedding ring rendered her intensely romantic in the eyes of Audrey and Miss Ingate, who both thought, in private: 

“She must be the wife of one of those lords!”

Every detail of her raiment, as she was put at her ease, showed her to be clothed in precisely the manner which Audrey and Miss Ingate thought peeresses always were clothed.  Hence, being English, they mingled respect with their solacing pity.  Nevertheless, their respect was tempered by a peculiar pride, for both of them, in taking lemonade on the Pullman, had taken therewith a certain preventive or remedy which made them loftily indifferent to the heaving of ships and the eccentricities of the sea.  The specific had done all that was claimed for it—­which was a great deal—­so much so that they felt themselves superwomen among a cargo of flaccid and feeble sub-females.  And they grew charmingly conceited.

“Am I in my cabin?” murmured the martyr, about a quarter of an hour after Miss Ingate, having obtained soda water, had administered to her a dose of the miraculous specific.

Her delicious cheeks were now a delicate crimson.  But they had been of a delicate crimson throughout.

“No,” said Audrey.  “You’re in ours.  Which is yours?”

“It’s on the other side of the ship, then.  I came out for a little air.  But I couldn’t get back.  I’d just as lief have died as shift from that seat out there by the railings.”

Something in the accent, something in those fine English words “lief” and “shift,” destroyed in the minds of Audrey and Miss Ingate the agreeable notion that they had a peeress on their hands.

“Is your husband on board?” asked Audrey.

“He just is,” was the answer.  “He’s in our cabin.”

“Shall I fetch him?” Miss Ingate suggested.  The corners of her lips had begun to fall once more.

“Will you?” said the young woman.  “It’s Lord Southminster.  I’m Lady Southminster.”

The two saviours were thrilled.  Each felt that she had misinterpreted the accent, and that probably peeresses did habitually use such words as “lief” and “shift.”  The corners of Miss Ingate’s lips rose to their proper position.

“I’ll look for the number on the cabin list,” said she hastily, and went forth with trembling to summon the peer.