All that day she did not see Louis.  Once or twice she heard him in his cabin, speaking to the man who shared it with him; not once did he put in an appearance at meals, and even at the melancholy hour of twilight he hid himself somewhere.  She began to feel a little neglected.

It was easy to make friends:  there were so many children to act as introducers.  It was interesting to watch people forming little cliques; the pock-marked man had now a collection of eight; they went ashore at Plymouth and came back again talking excitedly, with little snatches of song.  Mr. Peters and Mrs. Hetherington, the bright-haired little widow, were inseparable; one of the farm lads had forsaken Ole Fred already for a shy, red-cheeked emigrant girl, who giggled a good deal in corners with him; they sat for long hours, as the trip went on, saying nothing, staring out vacantly to sea, and occasionally holding each other’s hands.  At tea-time Marcella saw Louis come to the door of the saloon, look round with a frown, become very red in the face as he saw several people look at him casually, and beat a hasty retreat.  She had a long talk with the thin girl during the evening, learning that she had been under-housemaid in a girls’ school; she asked Marcella her name, volunteering the information that she was Phyllis Mayes, only her friends called her Diddy; she seemed to have got over much of her grief at parting with her sister.  After a while she explained, blushing and giggling, that one of the cook’s assistants had made friends with her the previous night and given her two meringues.

“A friend of mine who came out as a stewardess told me the best thing you could do was to make friends with the cooks or the butchers—­because there’s all sorts of little tit-bits they can get for you.  Young Bill—­him that gave me the meringues—­has got a mate called Winkle.  I’ll give you an intro., if you like.  He’s quite a toff.  He’s been a waiter.”

Marcella made some excuse, but when Phyllis—­or Diddy—­went away to her appointment with Bill she sat for a long time thinking.  She was already feeling disillusioned.

At nine o’clock she decided to go below.  In the shadow of the steps leading to the upper deck Mr. Peters and Mrs. Hetherington were sitting very close together.  A little bright tray was at their feet, and a big bottle with a cap and scarf of gold foil stood sentinel over two glasses of such an exquisite shape that Marcella stared hard at them as she passed, saying “Good night.”  Mr. Peters was smiling with filmy, vacuous eyes.  The little lady was flushed and vivid-looking.  They both nodded beamingly at her.  At the other side of the steps, in the bright light of the electric lamp was a small bundle, between two scarlet fire buckets.  It was Jimmy.

His hands were very dirty, his neck and back looked uncomfortably twisted.  She touched him gently and he wakened with a start.

“Jimmy, what’s to do?  You ought to be in bed,” she said.