“You are salop,” said the upper berth lady,—­which is untranslatable, not on grounds of propriety but of idiom.  It is not, however, a term of praise.

“Yes, that is what you are—­salop,” echoed the lower berth lady.  “And your sister is salop too—­lying in bed till all hours.”

“It is shameful for girls to be salop,” said the upper berth.

“I didn’t know it was your buttonhook.  I thought it was ours,” said Anna-Rose, pulling this out too with vehemence.

“That is because you are salop,” said the lower berth.

“And I didn’t know it wasn’t our scissors either.”

“Salop, salop,” said the lower berth, beating her hand on the wooden edge of her bunk.

“And—­and I’m sorry.”

Anna-Rose’s face was very red.  She didn’t look sorry, she looked angry.  And so she was; but it was with herself, for having failed in discernment and grown-upness.  She ought to have noticed that the scissors and buttonhook were not hers.  She had pounced on them with the ill-considered haste of twelve years old.  She hadn’t been a lady,—­she whose business it was to be an example and mainstay to Anna-Felicitas, in all things going first, showing her the way.

She picked up the sponge and plunged it into the water, and was just going to plunge her annoyed and heated face in after it when the upper berth lady said:  “Your mother should be ashamed of herself to have brought you up so badly.”

“And send you off like this before she has taught you even the ABC of manners,” said the lower berth.

“Evidently,” said the upper berth, “she can have none herself.”

“Evidently,” said the lower berth, “she is herself salop.”

The sponge, dripping with water, came quickly out of the basin in Anna-Rose’s clenched fist.  For one awful instant she stood there in her nightgown, like some bird of judgment poised for dreadful flight, her eyes flaming, her knotted pigtails bristling on the top of her head.

The wet sponge twitched in her hand.  The ladies did not realize the significance of that twitching, and continued to offer large angry faces as a target.  One of the faces would certainly have received the sponge and Anna-Rose have been disgraced for ever, if it hadn’t been for the prompt and skilful intervention of Anna-Felicitas.

For Anna-Felicitas, roused from her morning languor by the unusual loudness of the German ladies’ voices, and smitten into attention and opening of her eyes, heard the awful things they were saying and saw the sponge.  Instantly she knew, seeing it was Anna-Rose who held it, where it would be in another second, and hastily putting out a shaking little hand from her top berth, caught hold feebly but obstinately of the upright ends of Anna-Rose’s knotted pigtails.

“I’m going to be sick,” she announced with great presence of mind and entire absence of candour.