stewards in hospital! And only yesterday I caught it from the Chief
because the cutlery hadn't been polished--not that that's my job at all,
really--"

The next moment Knollys fell over in a dead faint, and copying what she
had seen him do when passengers fainted, Marcella fetched a pillow from
her cabin, laid it under his back on the floor and left him while she
polished the cutlery. Louis found her there and they came near to
fighting about it.

"What on earth are you doing?" he asked in amazement.

"Poor Knollys has gone down," she said, thinking that adequate
explanation.

Louis looked at him casually. Marcella was coming to understand that he
looked upon illness with a certain hardness and lack of pity that
surprised her; he was immensely interested in it, he liked to dabble in
it, but not from a passion of healing nearly so much as from curiosity
and technical interest. To him, in illness, curing the patient mattered
infinitely less than beating the disease. He had a queer snobbishness
about illness, too, that amazed her. To him Knollys, a steward, ill
meant infinitely less than the illness of a member of his own class
would have meant. This struck Marcella as illogical. To her it seemed
that, in illness at least, all men were brothers.

"There's a stoker just died of heat apoplexy: there'll be a funeral
presently," he said coolly. "What on earth are you doing?"

"People are so unkind. Knollys got into trouble yesterday because these
silly things were not clean," she said, polishing away furiously.

"But you can't do the work of a servant," he said, aghast.

"I can. Of course I can. I often have. I've worked in the fields with
the men, and I've milked the cows and made the butter. Oh, lots of
things--"

"Oh well, I suppose a farmer's daughter can do those things, Marcella.
But, look here, old girl, when we're married you'll have to be on your
dignity a bit."

She flushed a little and the storm light came into her eyes. Louis did
not see it. He sat on the edge of the table, and expostulated with her
for a long time. But she went on until the last spoon was polished.

"Don't you think we'd better get something for Knollys? Sal volatile or
iced water, or something?" she said at last, looking at her black hands.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, leave him alone. It's typical of the servant class to be bowled
over on the slightest provocation. I expect, as a matter of fact, he can
hear what we're saying