“How tired they must have got of their things!  I should like to have a new dress every day of my life, and a maid to take away the old ones,” cried Bluebell recklessly.

“How much does a dress cost—­making, trimming, and all.”

“Oh, some would be simple and inexpensive, of course—­say, on an average, L6 all round.”

“That would be more than L1,800 a year, without counting Sundays.  You’ll have to marry in the city, Miss Leigh.”

“I shall have to make L30 a year supply my wardrobe—­and earn it,” returned she, lightly.

This admission did not lower her in the estimation of the chivalrous young sailor, for such he was, though it cooled the already slight interest taken in her by the portly lady on the other side.

Mrs. Oliphant, who had made acquaintance with everybody, was gabbling away with her accustomed volubility.

“Oh, my dear Mrs. Rideout, have you tasted this vol-au-vent?  You really should.  I have got the bill of fare” (with girlish elation).  “There’s fricandeau of veal, calf’s-head collops, tripe a—­” here she stopped short, confused at the shocking word.

Bluebell and the young lieutenant had arrived at sufficient intimacy to exchange a merry glance.

In the mean time, the bride was enacting the pretty spoiled child, and resisting the solicitations of her husband—­a spoony-looking infantry captain—­that she would endeavour to eat something.  “Every one says it is so much better,” reiterated he.

“But I am not hungry,” said the baby, with most interesting naivete.

“Try a rawst potato, ma’am,” said the captain, in his broad accent.  “There’s many a one will eat a rawst potato who can’t care for anything else.”

The bride made a little moue, and shook her head, then admitted that she fancied a piece of raspberry tart, though the captain protested that if she would eat anything so injudicious, a gentle nip of whisky would be advisable to correct it.

Captain Butler, the happy bridegroom, was evidently still in the adoring stage, so he listened complacently to his wife’s silly badinage with the skipper, whom she informed, apparently for the information of the company, that she was just nineteen, but winced a little at her further admission that they had only been married a week.

A slight but monotonous roll and general chilliness, seemed to portend they were getting into a more open sea, and, as the motion increased, the saloon began to thin a little.  The bride’s prattle deepened into moanings and complaints; she was laid on the sofa, covered with shawls, and supplied with sal-volatile and smelling-bottles by her devoted spouse, who began to look deadly pale himself.

Mr. Dutton, Bluebell’s neighbour, had gone for a smoke with the skipper.  Mrs. Oliphant was also an absentee; she had tottered from the saloon the instant the wind freshened, with a contortion of countenance that betokened her dallyings with the vol-au-vent would be severely visited.  Mrs. Rideout, the lady of position, went off on the arm of her maid, who had not yet succumbed.