ilk on the gangway,
holding forth on his grievances to the world at large, whilst handsome
officers on deck smiled futilely, their white-gloved hands behind their
backs. I suppose it is this military precision that gives the P. & O.
their name and their passengers a sense of security; but there are
people so hard to please that they ask for less pipeclay, less crowded
cabins, and better service and more deck space, and these carpers will
never be content, so long as they see other lines, such as the Japanese,
giving all they clamour for, comfortable bath-rooms, beds, and a laundry
at moderate rates.

[1] Brother-in-law.

A touch of militarism that I rather fancy on the P. & O. is the bugle
call going round the ship before meals; it is such a jolly cheery sound
to awaken to. It comes from far along the ship in the morning, at first
faintly in the distance, when you are half-awake trying to account for
the faint sound of machinery and the running reflections on your white
roof, dimly conscious of the ever delightful feeling that you are
sailing south across the widest and most level of all plains. Louder and
louder it comes along the alley-way, till outside your cabin door it
fairly makes you jump! A jolly, cheery sound it is, almost nothing in
the world so stirring excepting the pipes. There's a laughing brazen
defiance in it, and gentleness too, as it dies away--most masculine
music! What associations it must have for soldiers; even to the man of
peace it suggests plate armour, the listed field and battles long
ago.... Did you ever hear it in Edinburgh? up in the empty, windy castle
esplanade--empty of all but memories--You see no bugler, but the wide
grey walls and sky are filled with its golden notes. It echoes for a
moment, and then there is quietness, till the noise of the town comes up
again. And at night have you heard it? from the _Far Side_ of Princes
Street, the ethereal notes between you and the stars, long drawn notes
of the last post, from an invisible bugler in the loom of the rock and
the rolling clouds.

G. murmurs, "It is abominable--but after all, going to sea is all a
matter of endurance." What a difference there is in the point of
view--G., I must say, had a hair mattress last night, and it was not
properly blanketted and entailed a certain amount of endurance; on the
other hand she is extremely fortunate in having such glorious pink roses
and beautiful hangings for nicknacks, touching parting gift