To this Justine replied: “Ah, madame, I am sorry. I could not help it; but I shall be quite well in the morning, I am sure.” Then she added quietly to me: “The poor madame! She will not see suffering. She hates pain. Sickness troubles her. Shall I be able to use my hand very soon, monsieur?” There was a wistful look in her eyes, and guessing why it was there, I said: “Yes, soon, I hope--in a few days, no doubt.” Her face lighted up, and she said: “Madame likes about her people who are happy and well.” Then, as if she might have said too much, she hurriedly added: “But she is very kind;” and, stooping down quickly, her face whitening with the effort, she caught up the broken glass and threw it through the port-hole into the sea. A half-hour later I went on deck, and found Mrs. Falchion comfortably seated in her deck-chair. I brought a stool over, and sat down beside her. To this hour the quickness with which I got upon friendly terms with her astonishes me. “Justine is better?” she said, and her hand made a slight motion of disgust. “Yes. She was not dangerously hurt, of course.” “Let us change the subject, please. They are going to have a fancy-dress ball on board, I believe, before we get to Aden. How tiresome! Isn’t it a little affectation on the part of the stage-struck committee? Isn’t it--inconsequent?” “That depends,” I said vaguely, inviting a question. She idled with a book in her lap. “On what?” “On those who go, what costumes are worn, and how much beauty and art appear.” “But the trouble! Does it pay? What return does one get?” “If all admire, half are envious, some are jealous, and one is devoted--isn’t that enough?” I think I was a fool that night. “You seem to understand women,” she said, with a puzzling and not quite satisfactory smile. “Yes, all that is something.” Though I was looking at the sea rather than at her, I saw again that inquiring look in her eyes--such a measuring look as a recruiting sergeant might give a victim of the Queen’s shilling. After a moment’s pause she continued, I thought, abstractedly: “As what should you go?” I answered lightly and without premeditation, “As Caius Cassius. Why should you not appear as Portia?” She lifted her eyebrows at me. “As Portia?” “As Portia, the wife of Brutus,” I blundered on, at the same time receiving her permission, by a nod, to light my cigar. “The pious, love-sick wife of Brutus!” This in a disdainful tone, and the white teeth clicked softly together. “Yes, a good disguise,” I said banteringly, though I fancy somewhat tentatively also, and certainly with a touch of rudeness. I was thinking at that moment of the Intermediate Passenger, and I was curious. “And you think of going in the disguise of a gentleman? Caius Cassius was that, wasn’t he?” she retorted in an ironical tone. “I suppose he was, though he was punished once for rudeness,” I replied apologetically. “Quite so,” was the decisive reply.