“A microbe, I believe, Dr. Boyell,” the inquisitive passenger observed deferentially, with due respect for medical science.

“Yes,” the ship’s doctor answered, helping himself to an olive.  “Forty million microbes to each square inch of the Bombay atmosphere.”

“And we are going to Bombay!” Lady Meadowcroft exclaimed, aghast.

“You must have known there was plague there, my dear,” Sir Ivor put in, soothingly, with a deprecating glance.  “It’s been in all the papers.  But only the natives get it.”

The thumb uncovered itself a little.  “Oh, only the natives!” Lady Meadowcroft echoed, relieved; as if a few thousand Hindus more or less would hardly be missed among the blessings of British rule in India.  “You know, Ivor, I never read those dreadful things in the papers. I read the Society news, and Our Social Diary, and columns that are headed ‘Mainly About People.’  I don’t care for anything but the Morning Post and the World and Truth.  I hate horrors. . . .  But it’s a blessing to think it’s only the natives.”

“Plenty of Europeans, too, bless your heart,” the Captain thundered out unfeelingly.  “Why, last time I was in port, a nurse died at the hospital.”

“Oh, only a nurse—­” Lady Meadowcroft began, and then coloured up deeply, with a side glance at Hilda.

“And lots besides nurses,” the Captain continued, positively delighted at the terror he was inspiring.  “Pucka Englishmen and Englishwomen.  Bad business this plague, Dr. Cumberledge!  Catches particularly those who are most afraid of it.”

“But it’s only in Bombay?” Lady Meadowcroft cried, clutching at the last straw.  I could see she was registering a mental determination to go straight up-country the moment she landed.

“Not a bit of it!” the Captain answered, with provoking cheerfulness.  “Rampaging about like a roaring lion all over India!”

Lady Meadowcroft’s thumb must have suffered severely.  The nails dug into it as if it were someone else’s.

Half an hour later, as we were on deck in the cool of the evening, the thing was settled.  “My wife,” Sir Ivor said, coming up to us with a serious face, “has delivered her ultimatum.  Positively her ultimatum.  I’ve had a mort o’ trouble with her, and now she’s settled.  Either, she goes back from Bombay by the return steamer; or else—­you and Miss Wade must name your own terms to accompany us on our tour, in case of emergencies.”  He glanced wistfully at Hilda.  “Do you think you can help us?”

Hilda made no hypocritical pretence of hanging back.  Her nature was transparent.  “If you wish it, yes,” she answered, shaking hands upon the bargain.  “I only want to go about and see India; I can see it quite as well with Lady Meadowcroft as without her—­and even better.  It is unpleasant for a woman to travel unattached.  I require a chaperon, and am glad to find one.