. She had a long
talk with the thin girl during the evening, learning that she had been
under-housemaid in a girls' school; she asked Marcella her name,
volunteering the information that she was Phyllis Mayes, only her
friends called her Diddy; she seemed to have got over much of her grief
at parting with her sister. After a while she explained, blushing and
giggling, that one of the cook's assistants had made friends with her
the previous night and given her two meringues.

"A friend of mine who came out as a stewardess told me the best thing
you could do was to make friends with the cooks or the butchers--because
there's all sorts of little tit-bits they can get for you. Young
Bill--him that gave me the meringues--has got a mate called Winkle. I'll
give you an intro., if you like. He's quite a toff. He's been a waiter."

Marcella made some excuse, but when Phyllis--or Diddy--went away to her
appointment with Bill she sat for a long time thinking. She was already
feeling disillusioned.

At nine o'clock she decided to go below. In the shadow of the steps
leading to the upper deck Mr. Peters and Mrs. Hetherington were sitting
very close together. A little bright tray was at their feet, and a big
bottle with a cap and scarf of gold foil stood sentinel over two glasses
of such an exquisite shape that Marcella stared hard at them as she
passed, saying "Good night." Mr. Peters was smiling with filmy, vacuous
eyes. The little lady was flushed and vivid-looking. They both nodded
beamingly at her. At the other side of the steps, in the bright light of
the electric lamp was a small bundle, between two scarlet fire buckets.
It was Jimmy.

His hands were very dirty, his neck and back looked uncomfortably
twisted. She touched him gently and he wakened with a start.

"Jimmy, what's to do? You ought to be in bed," she said.

"I'm waiting for dad," he explained, blinking and stretching. "My, it
does make your neck stiff."

"Come with me, and I'll put you in bed."

"Must wait for dad," he protested.

"You'll be too tired to play to-morrow. You'll be dropping asleep all
day."

"Then he'll go to sleep on the floor, and have a bad back," he said.

"Whyever does he go to sleep on the floor?"

"Because he's too tired, like I was. Only if I take my boots off and
kick him--very kindly, I have to kick--he wakes up and he's cross and
then he gets into bed."

He stared at her, frowning, as though trying to understand or else to