In her preparations she lost sight of the lunch hour, and the bell and the sound of feet scurrying down the companion way meant nothing to her.  But at three o’clock something extraordinarily exciting happened; she heard the sharp “ting-ting” of a bell, and the ship began to palpitate as if a great heart were beating within it.  She hurried on deck as the siren began to cry.  As soon as her head appeared above the top of the companion-way she saw the wharves and houses on shore running away in a peculiarly stealthy fashion; a ship much bigger than the Oriana, whose decks were thronged with stewards and deck-hands cheering and calling out greetings, went by; she dipped her flag to the outgoing Oriana, and Marcella thought how nice and chivalrous ships were to each other.  Then it dawned on her that they were under weigh—­that the heart she felt beating was the ship’s engines, and that the extraordinary behaviour of the shore was because the Oriana was going out with the tide.

She wondered then why she had come, and felt very frightened and lonely.  In all this big ship was no one who would care if she fell overboard into the muddy water; in all the world except at Lashnagar, which was sliding away from her with every beat of the ship’s heart, there was no one who knew her except an unknown, almost legendary, uncle.  She sat down on a covered hatchway, suddenly a little weak at the knees.

People passed and repassed, worrying the stewards with foolish and unnecessary questions, which they answered vaguely as they hurried by.  The thin girl stood leaning over the rail watching the brown shores that imprisoned her sister:  four men who had apparently already made friends came along and sat down by Marcella, exchanging plans.  One of them was horribly pock-marked; a younger man with red hair, queer shifty eyes and a habit of gesticulating a great deal when he talked was apparently going out with him.  As the mudflats of the Thames glided by dreamily Marcella found their conversation slipping into her consciousness.  The man with the red hair was talking:  as he waved his right hand she saw that it had the three middle fingers missing.  Her eyes followed it as if it hypnotized her.

“Going out to Sydney?” asked the pock-marked man of the two young farm hands who were staring about them open-mouthed.  They nodded stupidly.

“Got ’ny tin?” asked the red-haired man.  The younger farm hand, a ruddy, clean, foolish boy of twenty, jerked his thumb towards his friend.

“Dick’s got it.”

“Going to a job?”

“Maybe,” said the elder of the two, a little on his guard.

“Well, what I was finkin’ was vat vis is a six-weeks’ trip, an’ if we was to pal in we could have a good time.  I’ve done vis jaunt before, and know ve ropes.  I know how to square ve stewards to get drinks out of hours, and little extrys.”

The farm lads nodded comprehension, and the younger one began to talk rather loudly of his prospects.  The pock-marked man drew a little closer.