ive's mind by assuring her that all actresses were not
necessarily attired as "merry villagers," but the probable result of my
assurance seemed scarcely worth the effort.

A. Carleton Heathcroft, Esquire, was not acquainted with the stage, in
a professional way, at any rate. He was a slim and elegant gentleman,
dressed with elaborate care, who appeared profoundly bored with life
in general and our society in particular. He sported one of Hephzibah's
detestations, a monocle, and spoke, when he spoke at all, with a languid
drawl and what I learned later was a Piccadilly accent. He favored us
with his company during our first day afloat; after that we saw him
amid the select group at that much sought--by some--center of shipboard
prominence, "the Captain's table."

Oddly enough Hephzibah did not resent the Heathcroft condescension and
single eyeglass as much as I had expected. She explained her feeling in
this way.

"I know he's dreadfully high and mighty and all that," she said. "And
the way he said 'Really?' when you and I spoke to him was enough to
squelch even an Angelina Phinney. But I didn't care so much. Anybody,
even a body as green as I am, can see that he actually IS somebody when
he's at home, not a make-believe, like that Toronto man. And I'm glad
for our waiter's sake that he's gone somewhere else. The poor thing
bowed so low when he came in and was so terribly humble every time Mr.
Heathcroft spoke to him. I should hate to feel I must say 'Thank you'
when I was told that the food was 'rotten bad.' I never thought 'rotten'
was a nice word, but all these English folks say it. I heard that pretty
English girl over there tell her father that it was a 'jolly rotten
mornin',' and she's as nice and sweet as she can be. Well, I'm
learnin' fast, Hosy. I can see a woman smoke a cigarette now and not
shiver--much. Old Bridget Doyle up in West Bayport, used to smoke a
pipe and the whole town talked about it. She'd be right at home in that
sittin'-room they call a 'Lounge' after dinner, wouldn't she?"

My acquaintance with A. Carleton Heathcroft, which appeared to have
ended almost as soon as it began, was renewed in an odd way. I was in
the "Smoke-Room" after dinner the third evening out, enjoying a cigar
and idly listening to the bidding for pools on the ship's run, that
time-honored custom which helps the traveling gentleman of sporting
proclivities to kill time and lose money. On board the "Plutonia," with
its unu