Business detained Sir Arthur.  A war-cloud over-shadowed the two great divisions of the yellow race.  He must wait to see how matters developed, but he would not expose Iris to the insidious treachery of a Chinese spring.  So, with tears, they separated.  She was confided to the personal charge of Captain Ross.  At each point of call the company’s agents would be solicitous for her welfare.  The cable’s telegraphic eye would watch her progress as that of some princely maiden sailing in royal caravel.  This fair, slender, well-formed girl—­delightfully English in face and figure—­with her fresh, clear complexion, limpid blue eyes, and shining brown hair, was a personage of some importance.

Lady Tozer knew these things and sighed complacently.

“Ah, well,” she resumed.  “Parents had different views when I was a girl.  But I assume Sir Arthur thinks you should become used to being your own mistress in view of your approaching marriage.”

“My—­approaching—­marriage!” cried Iris, now genuinely amazed.

“Yes.  Is it not true that you are going to marry Lord Ventnor?”

A passing steward heard the point-blank question.

It had a curious effect upon him.  He gazed with fiercely eager eyes at Miss Deane, and so far forgot himself as to permit a dish of water ice to rest against Sir John Tozer’s bald head.

Iris could not help noting his strange behavior.  A flash of humor chased away her first angry resentment at Lady Tozer’s interrogatory.

“That may be my happy fate,” she answered gaily, “but Lord Ventnor has not asked me.”

“Every one says in Hong Kong—­” began her ladyship.

“Confound you, you stupid rascal! what are you doing?” shouted Sir John.  His feeble nerves at last conveyed the information that something more pronounced than a sudden draught affected his scalp; the ice was melting.

The incident amused those passengers who sat near enough to observe it.  But the chief steward, hovering watchful near the captain’s table, darted forward.  Pale with anger he hissed—­

“Report yourself for duty in the second saloon tonight,” and he hustled his subordinate away from the judge’s chair.

Miss Deane, mirthfully radiant, rose.

“Please don’t punish the man, Mr. Jones,” she said sweetly.  “It was a sheer accident.  He was taken by surprise.  In his place I would have emptied the whole dish.”

The chief steward smirked.  He did not know exactly what had happened; nevertheless, great though Sir John Tozer might be, the owner’s daughter was greater.

“Certainly, miss, certainly,” he agreed, adding confidentially:—­“It is rather hard on a steward to be sent aft, miss.  It makes such a difference in the—­er—­the little gratuities given by the passengers.”

The girl was tactful.  She smiled comprehension at the official and bent over Sir John, now carefully polishing the back of his skull with a table napkin.