Certainly, the steward—good little chap—had done all in his power to make them comfortable. He had put up their chairs in whatever warmth there was and out of the smell. She did hope he would be tipped adequately. It was on occasions like these (and her life seemed to be full of such occasions) that she wished it was the woman who controlled the purse. “Thank you, steward. That will do beautifully.” “Why are stewards so often delicate-looking?” she wondered, as her feet were tucked under. “This poor little chap looks as though he’d got a chest, and yet one would have thought ... the sea air....” The button of the pigskin purse was undone. The tray was tilted. She saw sixpences, shillings, half-crowns. “I should give him five shillings,” she decided, “and tell him to buy himself a good nourishing——” He was given a shilling, and he touched his cap and seemed genuinely grateful. Well, it might have been worse. It might have been sixpence. It might, indeed. For at that moment Father turned towards her and said, half-apologetically, stuffing the purse back, “I gave him a shilling. I think it was worth it, don’t you?” “Oh, quite! Every bit!” said she. It is extraordinary how peaceful it feels on a little steamer once the bustle of leaving port is over. In a quarter of an hour one might have been at sea for days. There is something almost touching, childish, in the way people submit themselves to the new conditions. They go to bed in the early afternoon, they shut their eyes and “it’s night” like little children who turn the table upside down and cover themselves with the table-cloth. And those who remain on deck—they seem to be always the same, those few hardened men travellers—pause, light their pipes, stamp softly, gaze out to sea, and their voices are subdued as they walk up and down. The long-legged little girl chases after the red-cheeked boy, but soon both are captured; and the old sailor, swinging an unlighted lantern, passes and disappears.... He lay back, the rug up to his chin and she saw he was breathing deeply. Sea air! If anyone believed in sea air, it was he. He had the strongest faith in its tonic qualities. But the great thing was, according to him, to fill the lungs with it the moment you came on board. Otherwise, the sheer strength of it was enough to give you a chill.... She gave a small chuckle, and he turned to her quickly. “What is it?” “It’s your cap,” she said. “I never can get used to you in a cap. You look such a thorough burglar.” “Well, what the deuce am I to wear?” He shot up one grey eyebrow and wrinkled his nose. “It’s a very good cap, too. Very fine specimen of its kind. It’s got a very rich white satin lining.” He paused. He declaimed, as he had hundreds of times before at this stage. “Rich and rare were the gems she wore.”