“No, she remains in her cabin. People have different tastes. Perhaps that’s one reason why Miss Mavis doesn’t come to table,” I added—“her chaperon not being able to accompany her.” “Her chaperon?” my fellow passenger echoed. “Mrs. Nettlepoint—the lady under whose protection she happens to be.” “Protection?” Mrs. Peck stared at me a moment, moving some valued morsel in her mouth; then she exclaimed familiarly “Pshaw!” I was struck with this and was on the point of asking her what she meant by it when she continued: “Ain’t we going to see Mrs. Nettlepoint?” “I’m afraid not. She vows she won’t stir from her sofa.” “Pshaw!” said Mrs. Peck again. “That’s quite a disappointment.” “Do you know her then?” “No, but I know all about her.” Then my companion added: “You don’t mean to say she’s any real relation?” “Do you mean to me?” “No, to Grace Mavis.” “None at all. They’re very new friends, as I happen to know. Then you’re acquainted with our young lady?” I hadn’t noticed the passage of any recognition between them at luncheon. “Is she your young lady too?” asked Mrs. Peck with high significance. “Ah when people are in the same boat—literally—they belong a little to each other.” “That’s so,” said Mrs. Peck. “I don’t know Miss Mavis, but I know all about her—I live opposite to her on Merrimac Avenue. I don’t know whether you know that part.” “Oh yes—it’s very beautiful.” The consequence of this remark was another “Pshaw!” But Mrs. Peck went on: “When you’ve lived opposite to people like that for a long time you feel as if you had some rights in them—tit for tat! But she didn’t take it up today; she didn’t speak to me. She knows who I am as well as she knows her own mother.” “You had better speak to her first—she’s constitutionally shy,” I remarked. “Shy? She’s constitutionally tough! Why she’s thirty years old,” cried my neighbour. “I suppose you know where she’s going.” “Oh yes—we all take an interest in that.” “That young man, I suppose, particularly.” And then as I feigned a vagueness: “The handsome one who sits _there_. Didn’t you tell me he’s Mrs. Nettlepoint’s son?” “Oh yes—he acts as her deputy. No doubt he does all he can to carry out her function.” Mrs. Peck briefly brooded. I had spoken jocosely, but she took it with a serious face. “Well, she might let him eat his dinner in peace!” she presently put forth. “Oh he’ll come back!” I said, glancing at his place. The repast continued and when it was finished I screwed my chair round to leave the table. Mrs. Peck performed the same movement and we quitted the saloon together. Outside of it was the usual vestibule, with several seats, from which you could descend to the lower cabins or mount to the promenade-deck. Mrs. Peck appeared to hesitate as to her course and then solved the problem by going neither way. She dropped on one of the benches and looked up at me. “I thought you said he’d come back.”