did get a little
of the former.

"This damned French boat!" he observed, rising with difficulty. "She
absolutely WON'T be still."

"The sea is pretty rough."

"Oh, the sea is all right. A bit damp, that's all. It's the blessed
boat. Foreigners are such wretched sailors."

He was off on another tack. Hephzy watched him wonderingly.

"A bit damp," she repeated. "Yes, I shouldn't wonder if 'twas. I suppose
likely he wouldn't call it wet if he fell overboard."

"Not on this side of the Channel," I answered. "This side is English
water, therefore it is all right."

A few minutes later Hephzy spoke again.

"Look at those poor women," she said.

Opposite us were two English ladies, middle-aged, wretchedly ill and so
wet that the feathers on their hats hung down in strings.

"Just like drowned cats' tails," observed Hephzy. "Ain't it awful!
And they're too miserable to care. You poor thing," she said, leaning
forward and addressing the nearest, "can't I fix you so you're more
comfortable?"

The woman addressed looked up and tried her best to smile.

"Oh, no, thank you," she said, weakly but cheerfully. "We're doing quite
well. It will soon be over."

Hephzy shook her head.

"Did you hear that, Hosy?" she whispered. "I declare! if it wasn't off
already, and that's a mercy, I'd take off my hat to England and the
English people. Not a whimper, not a complaint, just sit still and soak
and tumble around and grin and say it's 'a bit damp.' Whenever I read
about the grumblin', fault-findin' Englishman I'll think of the folks on
this boat. It may be patriotism or it may be the race pride and reserve
we hear so much about--but, whatever it is, it's fine. They've all got
it, men and women and children. I presume likely the boy that stood on
the burnin' deck would have said 'twas a bit sultry, and that's all....
What is it, Hosy?"

I had uttered an exclamation. A young man had just reeled by us on his
way forward. His cap was pulled down over his eyes and his coat collar
was turned up, but I recognized him. He was Herbert Bayliss.

We were three hours crossing from Folkestone to Boulogne, instead of the
usual scant two. We entered the harbor, where the great crucifix on the
hill above the town attracted Hephzy's attention and the French signs
over the doors of hotels and shops by the quay made her realize, so she
said, that we really were in a foreign country.

"Somehow England never did seem so very foreign," she sa