haffed the chief steward about "favouring
the doctor"; but he had a habit of saying uncomfortable things in
a deferential way, and they did not pursue the subject. Then they
commiserated the purser, who was an unpleasant little Jew of an envious
turn of mind; and he, as I was told, likened me to Sir John Falstaff.
I was sensitive in those days, and this annoyed me, particularly that
I had had nothing to do with placing Mrs. Falchion at my table. We are
always most sensitive when guilty concerning the spirit and not the
letter.

One who has lived the cosmopolitan life of London should be quick at
detecting nationalities, but I found it difficult, even after I heard
her speak, to guess at Mrs. Falchion's native land. There were good
reasons for this, as may be duly seen. Her appearance in the saloon
caused an instant buzz of admiration and interest, of which she seemed
oblivious. If it was acting, it was good acting; if it was lack of
self-consciousness, it was remarkable. As I soon came to know, it was
the latter--which, in such a woman, increased the remarkableness. I was
inclined at first to venture the opinion that she was an actress; but I
discovered that she possessed the attracting power of an actress without
the calculated manner of one; her very lack of self-consciousness was
proof of this emancipation.

When she sat down, I immediately welcomed her by name to my table.
The only surprise she showed at my knowledge of her name and my
self-introduction was to lift her head slightly and look at me, as if
wondering whether I was likely to be an inquisitive and troublesome
host; and also, as I thought, to measure me according to her measure. It
was a quick look, and the interest she showed was of a passive kind. She
asked me as she might an old acquaintance--or a waiter--if the soup was
good, and what the fish was like; decided on my recommendation to wait
for the entrees; requested her next neighbour to pass the olives; in
an impersonal way began to talk about the disadvantages of life at sea;
regretted that all ship food tasted alike; wondered if the cook knew
how to make a Russian salad; and added that the menu was a national
compromise.

Now that she was close to me, I could see that her beauty was real and
notable. Her features were regular, her eyes of a greyish violet, her
chin strong, yet not too strong--the chin of a singer; her hands had
that charming quiet certainty of movement possessed by so few; and h