“You shall not say what you please to _me_,” returned the other, not knowing with whom she had to cope, nor that it was a fatal mistake to argue with Miss Redmond; but argue she did, and she had the best of the dispute, whilst Mrs. Calvert and her sister were the miserable witnesses to a quarrel that would have disgraced the Kilkenny cats! Miss Redmond, boiling over with ungovernable fury, gave her too ready opponent a smart slap on the face with the back of a hair brush, a slap that left a _mark_--a mark that was shown to the Captain--and after this, there was a somewhat constrained silence. Belle held her head high, and pretended that she did not care. Nor did she notice, later in the evening, how some of the ladies whispered and looked. This scene was the precursor of several of a similar type; there were hot words, though no blows, in other places, and she missed her mother desperately on these occasions--her mother who had always officiated as her buffer and shield. These cruel people received her hysterical apologies so very, _very_ coldly. By the time that Bombay lighthouse was in view, Belle’s evanescent popularity had almost wholly disappeared. What would she have said, had she peeped over the shoulder of one of her former admirers, and seen the letter he was writing for the mail. “We have lots of girls on board, some going out to be married, some on promotion, some pretty, some plain. A Miss Redmond takes the cake, as far as looks and frocks go. She plays the guitar and sings and acts and is coming out for amusement _only_, and means to go far. She has a truly tropical temper, and has embroiled herself with several of her sex, and for all her bright eyes and many fascinations, I heartily pity the poor devil who is to marry her.” Yes, Belle’s temper had as usual been her social bane, and most of the ladies who were her fellow-passengers (forgetting all her pretty time-killing efforts) spoke of her subsequently in their several circles as “that awful creature we came out with on board the _Nankin_.” Mrs. Calvert and her sister were silent and circumspect, and by an immense outlay of tact and forbearance managed to keep an unbroken peace, but they lived in a state of repressed nervous excitement, and more than once were appealed to, and almost forced into a quarrel either with her or Miss Cox. Mrs. Calvert marvelled at what possessed George Holroyd to marry this shallow, restless, fiery little person, who rarely named him, and then with as much emotion as if she were speaking of her washerwoman. One afternoon, when she and her sister were leaning against the bulwarks watching the deep green water, and sheets of lace-like foam that fell away from the steamer’s bows, they began to discuss their charge with bated breath. “I cannot imagine what has happened to George Holroyd,” exclaimed Mrs. Calvert. “How can he call her a simple little country girl?” glancing across at Belle.