ady Tozer. Here it was
impossible, and the older woman fastened upon her asp-like. Miss Iris
Deane was a toothsome morsel for gossip. Not yet twenty-one, the only
daughter of a wealthy baronet who owned a fleet of stately ships--the
_Sirdar_ amongst them--a girl who had been mistress of her
father's house since her return from Dresden three years ago--young,
beautiful, rich--here was a combination for which men thanked a
judicious Heaven, whilst women sniffed enviously.

Business detained Sir Arthur. A war-cloud over-shadowed the two great
divisions of the yellow race. He must wait to see how matters
developed, but he would not expose Iris to the insidious treachery of a
Chinese spring. So, with tears, they separated. She was confided to the
personal charge of Captain Ross. At each point of call the company's
agents would be solicitous for her welfare. The cable's telegraphic eye
would watch her progress as that of some princely maiden sailing in
royal caravel. This fair, slender, well-formed girl--delightfully
English in face and figure--with her fresh, clear complexion, limpid
blue eyes, and shining brown hair, was a personage of some importance.

Lady Tozer knew these things and sighed complacently.

"Ah, well," she resumed. "Parents had different views when I was a
girl. But I assume Sir Arthur thinks you should become used to being
your own mistress in view of your approaching marriage."

"My--approaching--marriage!" cried Iris, now genuinely amazed.

"Yes. Is it not true that you are going to marry Lord Ventnor?"

A passing steward heard the point-blank question.

It had a curious effect upon him. He gazed with fiercely eager eyes at
Miss Deane, and so far forgot himself as to permit a dish of water ice
to rest against Sir John Tozer's bald head.

Iris could not help noting his strange behavior. A flash of humor
chased away her first angry resentment at Lady Tozer's interrogatory.

"That may be my happy fate," she answered gaily, "but Lord Ventnor has
not asked me."

"Every one says in Hong Kong--" began her ladyship.

"Confound you, you stupid rascal! what are you doing?" shouted Sir
John. His feeble nerves at last conveyed the information that something
more pronounced than a sudden draught affected his scalp; the ice was
melting.

The incident amused those passengers who sat near enough to observe it.
But the chief steward, hovering watchful near the captain's table,
darted forward. Pale with ange