I caught her glance for a moment: I am sure she remembered me as the passenger she had addressed on the poop; yet there was not the faintest expression of recognition in the full, firm, swift stare she honoured me with. She looked away from me as haughtily as a queen, with flashing inspection of the others of the row of us that confronted her, though it seemed to me that her gaze lingered a little on the Honourable Mr. Colledge, who was seated immediately opposite. ‘I reckon now,’ whispered Mr. Prance, leaning to me in his chair from his athwart-ship post at the foot of the table, ‘that yonder Miss Temple will be about the handsomest woman that was ever afloat.’ ‘There have been many thousands of women afloat,’ said I, ‘since Noah got under way with the ladies of his family aboard.’ ‘I have been sailing in passenger-ships,’ said he,‘for nineteen years come next month, and have never before seen such a figure-head as Miss Temple’s. What teeth she has! Little teeth, sir, as all women’s should be; and where’s the whiteness that’s to be compared to them?’ ‘Who is that homely, pleasant-faced woman sitting by her side?’ ‘Her aunt, Mrs. Radcliffe,’ he answered. ‘What errand carries that stately creature to India, do you know, Mr. Prance?’ ‘I do not, sir.’ ‘Not very likely,’ I continued, ‘that she’s bound out in search of a husband.’ ‘No, no,’ he muttered. ‘The like of her have a big enough market at home to command. No need for _her_ to cross the ocean to find a sweetheart. She’s the daughter of a dead baronet, a tenth title, so the captain was saying; and her mother has a large estate to live on. Captain Keeling knows all about them. Her ladyship was seized with paralysis when her husband was brought home with his neck broken, and has been a sheer hulk ever since, I believe, poor thing. We brought Mrs. Radcliffe to England last voyage. Her husband’s a big planter up country, and worth a lac or two. I expect Miss Temple is going out on a visit--nothing more. Her health may need a voyage. Those choice bits of mechanism often go wrong in their works. She wants a stroke of colour in her cheeks. ’Tis the scent of the milkmaid that she lacks, sir.’ He gave a pleasant nod, quietly rose, and went on deck by way of the cuddy front, to relieve the second officer, who was watching the ship for him whilst he breakfasted.