me as he left the saloon.

"Apparently not. My friend tells me she doesn't like the saloon."

"You don't mean to say she's sick, do you?"

"Oh no, not in this weather. But she likes to be above."

"And is that gentleman gone up to her?"

"Yes, she's under his mother's care."

"And is his mother up there, too?" asked Mrs. Peck, whose processes were
homely and direct.

"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
vaguen