The luncheon-bell rang, and we descended into the saloon. Mrs. Lee begged me to join the company at table. ‘I will ask the steward,’ she said, ‘to find you a place next to my daughter.’ But I entreated her to excuse me. ‘I do not like to show myself in company with this bandage on,’ I said, ‘and I feel weak and shy, and my talk I fear is often childish. I hope to join you in a few days,’ and thus speaking I put her daughter’s hat and the shawl she had lent me into her hands, and made my way to my berth. When I entered my berth I sat down to rest myself and reflect. I felt weary. The fresh air had rendered me somewhat languid, and I had overtaxed my strength with the several conversations I had held with one and another on the poop. I said to myself, can it be that the little man with the fur on his coat is right? Is my name Calthorpe, and am I a lady of title, and is my home actually in England? And then I hunted in my mind for an idea to help me, but I found none. I groped, as it were, with my inner vision over the thick black curtain that had descended upon my past; but nothing, no, not the most phantasmal outline of recollection glimmered upon the sable folds of my mind. The cries of my heart were unanswered. No echo was returned from the dreadful silent midnight that hung upon my spirit. I looked upon my naked hands; I drew forth my purse, and for the twentieth time gazed at it, and at the money in it; I examined the pocket handkerchief and mused upon the initials in the corner, and whilst I was thus occupied, Mrs. Richards entered with my lunch. ‘I was sure,’ said she, ‘you would wish to remain private for some little time yet. I hope I have brought you what you like. This red wine is Burgundy. Mr. McEwan bade me give it you; he says it is a very feeding wine. And what do you think I have just heard?’ ‘I cannot imagine,’ said I. ‘Why, Mrs. Webber stopped me as I was passing through the saloon, and said, “What do you think, Mrs. Richards? Sir Frederick Thompson believes he has found out who Miss C---- is. And who do you think he says she is?” “I do not know, madam,” said I. “A Calthorpe,” said she. “What is a Calthorpe?” said I. “A Calthorpe,” she answered, “is a member of one of the oldest families in England. The Earl of ---- is a Calthorpe, and Sir Frederick finds an extraordinary likeness between Miss C---- and Lady Lucy Calthorpe. He is quite satisfied that she is not Lady Lucy herself, because her ladyship’s hair is brown, not white, but he is willing to bet she is a Calthorpe.” “As for the hair being white,” said I, “if Miss C---- is Lady Lucy Calthorpe, she has undergone quite enough to change the colour of her hair. But how could Sir Frederick,” said I, “be sure of her with a bandage on?” “Well, he is sure,” said Mrs. Webber, “sure I mean that she is a Calthorpe,” and this was all that passed; the passengers were arriving to take their places, and I came away. What do you think?’