Cecily looked at them askance. To her the atmosphere was alien, and I perceived that gently and privately she registered objections. She cast a disapproving eye upon the wife of a Conservator of Forests, who scanned with interest a distant funnel and laid a small wager that it belonged to the Messageries Maritimes. She looked with a straightened lip at the crisply stepping women who walked the deck in short and rather shabby skirts with their hands in their jacket-pockets talking transfers and promotions; and having got up at six to make a water-colour sketch of the sunrise, she came to me in profound indignation to say that she had met a man in his pyjamas; no doubt; poor wretch, on his way to be shaved. I was unable to convince her he was not expected to visit the barber in all his clothes. At the end of the third day she told me that she wished these people wouldn’t talk to her; she didn’t like them. I had turned in the hour we left the Channel and had not left my berth since, so possibly I was not in the most amiable mood to receive a douche of cold water. ‘I must try to remember, dear,’ I said, ‘that you have been brought up altogether in the society of pussies and vicars and elderly ladies, and of course you miss them. But you must have a little patience. I shall be up tomorrow, if this beastly sea continues to go down; and then we will try to find somebody suitable to introduce to you.’ ‘Thank you, mamma,’ said my daughter, without a ray of suspicion. Then she added consideringly, ‘Aunt Emma and Aunt Alice do seem quite elderly ladies beside you, and yet you are older than either of them aren’t you? I wonder how that is.’ It was so innocent, so admirable, that I laughed at my own expense; while Cecily, doing her hair, considered me gravely. ‘I wish you would tell me why you laugh, mamma,’ quoth she; ‘you laugh so often.’ We had not to wait after all for my good offices of the next morning. Cecily came down at ten o’clock that night quite happy and excited; she had been talking to a bishop, such a dear bishop. The bishop had been showing her his collection of photographs, and she had promised to play the harmonium for him at the eleven-o’clock service in the morning. ‘Bless me!’ said I, ‘is it Sunday?’ It seemed she had got on very well indeed with the bishop, who knew the married sister, at Tunbridge, of her very greatest friend. Cecily herself did not know the married sister, but that didn’t matter--it was a link. The bishop was charming. ‘Well, my love,’ said I--I was teaching myself to use these forms of address for fear she would feel an unkind lack of them, but it was difficult--‘I am glad that somebody from my part of the world has impressed you favourably at last. I wish we had more bishops.’ ‘Oh, but my bishop doesn’t belong to your part of the world,’ responded my daughter sleepily. ‘He is travelling for his health.’