But all the time, in spite of chaffing insults and even friendly overtures he kept away from Ole Fred’s gang and stayed almost desperately at Marcella’s side.  They became the subject of gossip; spiteful gossip on the part of the girls, shocked gossip on the side of the married women, who, with the exception of Mrs. Hetherington, left her severely alone.

Between Marcella and Mrs. Hetherington a queer friendship had sprung up; her quickness, her absolute lack of continuity, her littleness and her transparently minx-like qualities seemed so pathetic that Marcella took her under her wing.  She never came out of her cabin for breakfast; the stewardess, with her nose very high in the air and a non-committal voice, had asked Marcella to go to Mrs. Hetherington’s cabin the morning after Gibraltar.  She found the little lady propped up in her bunk, her black hair all over the pillow, her small face rising from a foam of pink ribbons and laces that seemed unreal to the girl.

“Oh, my dear, how sweet of you to come to me!  I am terribly ill—­terribly ill,” she said faintly.

“I am so sorry.  Will I get the doctor?”

“Oh dear no.  I am often like this!  I suffer terribly, my dear, terribly.  My poor, poor head.”

Marcella had bought a bottle of eau-de-Cologne at Gibraltar when the Spanish merchants came aboard; she fetched it and bathed Mrs. Hetherington’s aching head.  All the time she was staring at her fascinating nightgown.  It was the first dainty garment she had seen close to since her mother’s death.

“That is so nice, dear,” she murmured.  Marcella blushed.  She was not used to being called “dear” and liked it immensely.

“Would you brush my silly mop of hair and then pass me my cap, dear?  Oh this hair is a bother!  I’ve often thought I’d have it cut off like a convict.”

“I think it is wonderful hair,” Marcella told her, brushing it tenderly, and plaiting it back before she arranged it under a ridiculous boudoir cap of ribbon and lace.

“I can’t tell you how I suffered during the night, dear,” said Mrs. Hetherington plaintively. “(Just pass me the hand mirror, will you?) I can’t think why I was so foolish as to travel steerage.  Those three emigrant girls in this cabin—­my dear, they are absolutely coarse!  You should see their underclothes!  Look, Marcella—­I’m going to call you Marcella, you are so sweet.  Look at that nightgown on the top bunk. Pink flannelette!  And I hate to share my cabin with them!  They’ve gone on deck now for the day.  I told them I simply must be alone.”

“Aren’t you going to have any breakfast?” asked Marcella.  “I’ll make you some tea if you like.”  She and Louis had bought a teapot at Gibraltar, solemnly paying half each and sharing the responsibility for the sacrifice of the other one.

“No, I don’t think I could drink tea.  What do you think I could have?  You know, my dear, it was champagne that upset me like this!  Mistah Petahs and I had a small bottle last night and it brought everything back.”