They stood
aloof, watching the flashy gaieties of the hurricane-deck from their own
sad penumbra--a dejected, wistful, whispering throng. "They simply
don't occur," one of the be-diamonded ladies remarked to me, and went on
to praise the U-- Line for arranging it so. With nightfall--or a trifle
later--they vanished; and at most, when the time came for my last pipe
before turning in, two or three figures would be left pacing there
forward, pacing and turning and pacing again. I wondered who these
figures were, and what their thoughts. They and the sleepers hived
beneath them belonged to another world--a world driven with ours through
wave and darkness, urged by the same propellers, controlled by the same
helmsman, separated only by thin partitions which the touch of a rock
would tear down like paper; yet, while the partitions stood, separated
as no city separates its rich and poor. Only on Sundays did these two
worlds consent to meet. They had, it appeared, a common God, and joined
for a few minutes once a week in worshipping Him.

The be-diamonded lady, however, was not quite accurate. Once, and once
only--it was the second day out from Madeira--the third-class passengers
did "occur," to the extent of organising athletic sports, and even (with
the captain's leave) of levying prize-money from the saloon-deck.
Some four or five of us, when their delegate approached, were lounging
beneath the great awning and listening, or pretending to listen, to the
discourse of our only millionaire, Mr. Olstein. As usual, he recited
his wrongs; and, as usual, the mere recital caused him to perspire.
The hairs on the back of his expostulatory hand bristled with
indignation, the diamonds on his fingers flashed with it. We had known
him but two days and were passing weary of him, but allowed him to talk.
He apostrophised the British Flag--his final Court of Appeal, he termed
it--while we stared out over the waters.

"We love it," he insisted. "We never see it without a lump in our
throats. But we ask ourselves, How long is this affection to count for
nothing? What are we to get in return?"

No one answered, perhaps because no one knew. My thoughts had flown
forward to a small riverside church in England, and a memorial window to
one whose body had been found after Isandlwhana with the same flag
wrapped around it beneath the tunic. This was _his_ reward.

"Hey? What's this?" Mr. Olstein took the subscription list, fitte