The prospect of being imprisoned between decks for four weeks, with this heterogeneous collection appalled him.  His only safety lay in maintaining a rigid and uncompromising aloofness.  He would discourage all advances from the start, he would promptly nip in the bud the first sign of intrusion.  He had left the only country an Englishman regards as the proper place for existence, to cross two abominable seas and an even more abominable continent, for the sole purpose of privacy, and privacy he meant to have at all costs.

As the Saluria weighed anchor and steamed out of the Golden Gate, he went below to see that his valet had made satisfactory disposition of his varied belongings.  His state-room was at the end of a short passage leading from the main, one, and he was displeased at finding the deep ledge under the passage window completely filled with flowers and fruit that evidently belonged to some one occupying a room in the same passage.

He rang for the cabin-boy.

“Remove that greengrocer’s shop!” he commanded peremptorily.  “It is abominably stuffy down here.  We can’t have the port-holes filled up like that, you know.”

The bland face of the young Chinaman assumed an expression of mild inquiry.

“Take away!” ordered Percival, resorting to gesture.

“No can,” said the boy, calmly.  “All same b’long one missy.  Missy b’long cap’n.”

Percival turned impatiently to his valet, who was coming through the passage.

“Judson, get those things out of the window, and keep them out.  Do you hear?”

“Yes, sir.  But where shall I put them, sir?”

“On the floor—­in the sea—­wherever you like,” said Percival, as he slipped his arms into the top-coat that was being respectfully held for him.

Once again on deck, he found that the wind had acquired a sudden edge.  The short chop of the waves and scudding of gray clouds indicated that the customary bit of rough weather after leaving the Golden Gate was to be expected.  Percival was not happy in rough weather.  He attributed it to extreme sensitiveness to atmospheric conditions.  Whatever the cause, the result remained that he was not happy.

The motion of the vessel made him pause a moment.  The casual observer would have said he stopped to cast an experienced eye on a sky that could not deceive him; but the casual observer does not always know.  It is a long distance between the prow and the stern of an ocean liner, when the deck is composed of alternating mountains and valleys that one has to climb and descend.  Percival found it decidedly hard going before he reached his steamer-chair.

When he did so, he encountered a sight that filled him with chagrin.  Wrapped in the folds of his rug was that obnoxious blue-and-lavender steamer-coat, with its owner snugly ensconced within, her eyes closed, and her cheek brazenly reposing on the Hascombe crest that adorned the pillow under her head!