As she stood there, holding on to a stanchion to steady herself, for the vessel, large as she was, had begun to get a bit of a roll on, she was suddenly aware of a bulky figure of a man which came running or rather reeling against the bulwarks alongside of her, where it—or rather he—was instantly and violently ill. Augusta was, not unnaturally, almost horrified into following the figure’s example, when, suddenly growing faint or from some other cause, it loosed its hold and rolled into the scuppers, where it lay feebly swearing. Augusta, obeying a tender impulse of humanity, hurried forward and stretched out the hand of succour, and presently, between her help and that of the bulwark netting, the man struggled to his feet. As he did so his face came close to hers, and in the dim light she recognised the fat, coarse features, now blanched with misery, of Mr. Meeson, the publisher. There was no doubt about it, it was her enemy; the man whose behavior had indirectly, as she believed, caused the death of her little sister. She dropped his hand with an exclamation of disgust and dismay, and as she did so he recognised who she was. “Hullo!” he said, with a faint and rather feeble attempt to assume his fine old crusted publishing-company manners. “Hullo! Miss Jemima—Smithers, I mean; what on earth are you doing here?” “I am going to New Zealand, Mr. Meeson,” she answered sharply; “and I certainly did not expect to have the pleasure of your company on the voyage.” “Going to New Zealand,” he said, “are you? Why, so am I; at least, I am going there first, then to Australia. What do you mean to do there—try and run round our little agreement, eh? It won’t be any good, I tell you plainly. We have our agents in New Zealand, and a house in Australia, and if you try to get the better of Meeson’s there, Meeson’s will be even with you, Miss Smithers—Oh, Heavens! I feel as though I were coming to pieces.” “Don’t alarm yourself, Mr. Meeson,” she answered, “I am not going to publish any more books at present.” “That is a pity,” he said, “because your stuff is good selling stuff. Any publisher would find money in it. I suppose you are second-class, Miss Smithers, so we shan’t see much of each other; and, perhaps, if we should meet, it might be as well if we didn’t seem to have any acquaintance. It don’t look well for a man in my position to know second-class passengers, especially young lady passengers who write novels.” “You need not be afraid, Mr. Meeson: I have no wish to claim your acquaintance,” said Augusta.