Her cabin—­Number 9—­being the one with the porthole, was at the end of the alley-way.  The door of Number 8 was open into the passage, but she was too blinded by her emotion to notice it, and blundered into it.  It was badly swung, and slammed inwards.  She heard a smash inside the cabin, and someone said “Damn!” It was exactly the same “Damn” that had resulted from her headlong flight after Dr. Angus.

She was standing a little breathless by her own door when Number 8 opened and Louis Farne looked out.  His hair was rumpled, his expression one of speechless annoyance.

“W—­what the d—­devil are you up to?” he said, stammering a little.  “Th-that’s the s-second time.”

“Oh, it’s you!” she said, speaking breathlessly.  “A horrible man gave me whisky, and I was frightened.”

“Good Lord!” He gazed at her, and she noticed that he gazed in a queer way, afraid to meet her eyes:  it was her chin he saw when he looked at her; she rubbed it with her handkerchief, wondering if a smut had got on it.  And he transferred his gaze to her ear.

“And I made you spill your tea!  I am sorry!  I seem made to do violent things to you.  But can’t I get you some more?”

“I s-suppose I c-can make some,” he said, turning into the cabin.

“Don’t they give us tea?  Do we have to make our own?”

“Oh no—­but I’ve done this trip before, and know how one w-wants a d-drink in the tropics.”

He took the door in his hand and fumbled with the faulty catch as though he would shut it.  Then he seemed to shake himself together inside his coat, which was very crumpled, as though he had been lying down inside it.  “Look here,” he said breathlessly and with an effort, “w-would you like some tea?  I can get another c-cup from the steward.”

“I would,” she said frankly.  “Do make some more.  I’ve a cake in my box that’s supposed to last me till I get to Australia.  But I’ll find it, and we’ll have it now.  I’m horribly hungry.”

She went inside her cabin and drew out her trunk, which she had not yet unlocked.  She heard him clearing up the broken cup, and then he tapped on her door.

“I can’t open it—­mine opens inwards, you see,” she called.  “And my trunk’s in the way.  What is it?”

“I—­I—­c-called you an idiot,” came his voice, rather low and hesitating.

“So I was,” she said bluntly, and heard him laugh.

“St-still—­I needn’t have mentioned it.”

Then his steps grew faint along the alley-way.  She sat back on her heels, frowning.  She was wondering why he would not look at her, why he flushed and stammered when he spoke to her.

He was back in a few minutes, explaining that he had been to the cook’s galley for boiling water to make tea.  She had dragged her cabin trunk into the doorway, and laid upon it the tin in which her cake was packed, the two cups he brought with him and the teapot.