“Simply because they’ve never had anyone to order about before, and they aren’t used to it.  But anything you want, let me know, miss, and I’ll see you all right.”

When she got into the dining saloon she found small wars in progress.  About a hundred and fifty people were trying to sit down in a hundred seats.  The stewards looked harassed as they explained that there was another meal-time half an hour after the first.  Knollys was trying, with impassive dignity, to prove mathematically to an old lady that by waiting until six o’clock for her tea to-day and automatically shifting all her meal-times on half an hour she was losing nothing; and, after all, it would all be the same whether she had her tea at five or six or seven a hundred years hence.  But she thought there was some catch in it, for she expressed an intention of seeing the captain, and then, thinking better of it, stood behind an already occupied chair with the air of Horatius holding the bridge.

When at last order was restored and Marcella sat down, she found that she was at a long table, one of three that ran from end to end of the saloon.  Ole Fred and his three friends were at the same table, a little higher up.  He scowled at her, and the three others made some grinning remarks to him which he seemed to resent.  Next to her was a little boy of six or seven, who looked at her gravely.  Beside him was a man with greying hair and a very red face, who was talking to a small lady of deceptive age—­a very pretty, dark, bright-eyed little lady, charmingly dressed, with hair of shining blackness arranged about her head in dozens of little tight curls.  She and the elderly man were talking animatedly.  The little boy pulled the man’s arm several times gently, and said “Father,” but he did not notice.

There were piles of sliced bread at intervals up the table, and saucers containing butter and jam.  The stewards came to each person with an enormous pair of pots and, murmuring “tea or coffee?” poured something by sleight-of-hand into the thick, unbreakable cups.

“Father!” murmured the little boy again, pulling his father’s sleeve.  The father shook his arm impatiently, as one jerks away an annoying fly.  He went on talking absorbedly.  A steward asked if Marcella would have ham or fish.

“Father,” said the little boy, with quivering lips.

“What’s to do, laddie?” said Marcella.

He stared at her, summed her up and decided.

“I’m thinking, shall I have ham or fish?” he said seriously.

“Which do you like?”

“Fish—­only the bones are so worrying.”

“I’ll see to the bones for you.  Have fish because I’m having it, and we can keep each other company,” she said.  Knollys darted away.

“I’d advise you to make a good tea, miss,” said Knollys with a firmly respectful air.  “There’s nothing until breakfast at eight to-morrow.”

Marcella nodded at him.  Next minute she heard Ole Fred swearing at him for not being quicker, but Knollys took it all with an impersonally sarcastic air.  She cut up the little boy’s bread and butter into strips, arranged his fish, and watched, with amusement, his father turn to him with a jerk of remembrance.