"All are not equal," she cried, reddening. And I remembered that she was a considerable person in her own eyes. But I said firmly, "Pardon me. All who pay the same fares are on the same footing--or should be. And there is not room here for everybody." "The captain," said she, "can entertain his friends as he chooses, and I am one of his oldest friends, besides being related to his owners. And as for his having no business to do this or that--oh, my dear Mrs. Braye, do allow the poor man to know his own business best--I assure you he knows it perfectly, nobody better--and let him be master, at any rate, on his ship, whatever he may be in his home." She laughed again, as she settled herself and opened her book. I was simply speechless with indignation. But, even had I been able to speak, I was not one to bandy words with that sort of person. I just rolled up my work, quietly rose, and went downstairs to my cabin on deck. "Why do you go away?" she asked, as I passed her. "Isn't the bridge big enough for us both?" "No," I replied. And that was my last word to her. Going down the stairs, I met Tom coming up. He said, "Hullo, Polly, where are you off to?" I looked at him steadily--that's all. And his face clouded over. He passed on, leaving me alone. But they were not long together. Five minutes later I heard her voice suddenly through the open port of my cabin--that horrible deck cabin, where I was surrounded and pressed upon by talking, boot-clumping passengers, who just could not spy in upon me because I had door shut and window curtain down. Doubtless she did it on purpose. She must have known where I was, seeing that I was not on the bridge or sitting out on deck. She was speaking to some man of her acquaintance. "It is always a mistake," she said, "for captains to have their wives on board. I wonder the owners allow it. It spoils the comfort of the other passengers--who, after all, are the chief persons to be considered--and demoralises the poor fellows to such an extent that they are not like the same men. Look at Captain Braye, whom I've known for ages--the dearest old boy you can imagine when he's let alone--it's pitiful to see him henpecked and cowed, and afraid to call his soul his own, shaking in his very shoes before that vixen of a woman!" Her companion said something that I could not hear--I believe it was my pleasant neighbour at breakfast whom she was trying to set against me--and then she put on the crowning touch. "It is always the fate of those exceptionally nice men," said she, "to marry women who don't know how to appreciate them."