under the wrought-iron dome of the staircase, are
crowning another hour of Time; and our traveller comes up into the fresh
air again in order to assure himself that he is really at sea. The
electric lift whisks him up four storeys to the deck again; there all
around him are the blue-gray waters of the Channel surging in a white
commotion past the towering sides of the ship, spurned by the tremendous
rush and momentum of these fifty thousand tons through the sea. This
time our traveller stops short of the boat-deck, and begins to explore
the far vaster B deck which, sheltered throughout its great length by
the boat-deck above, and free from all impediments, extends like a vast
white roadway on either side of the central deck. Here the busy deck
stewards are arranging chairs in the places that will be occupied by
them throughout the voyage. Here, as on the parade of a fashionable
park, people are taking their walks in the afternoon sunshine.

From the staircase forward the deck houses are devoted to apartments
which are still by force of habit called cabins, but which have nothing
in fact to distinguish them from the most luxurious habitations ashore,
except that no dust ever enters them and that the air is always fresh
from the open spaces of the sea. They are not for the solitary
traveller; but our friend perhaps is curious and peeps in through an
uncurtained window. There is a complete habitation with bed-rooms,
sitting-room, bath-room and service-room complete. They breathe an
atmosphere of more than mechanical luxury, more than material
pleasures. Twin bedsteads, perfect examples of Empire or Louis Seize,
symbolize the romance to which the most extravagant luxury in the world
is but a minister. Instead of ports there are windows--windows that look
straight out on to the blue sea, as might the windows of a castle on a
cliff. Instead of stoves or radiators there are open grates, where fires
of sea-coal are burning brightly. Every suite is in a different style,
and each and all are designed and furnished by artists; and the love and
repose of millionaires can be celebrated in surroundings of Adam or
Hepplewhite, or Louis Quatorze or the Empire, according to their tastes.
And for the hire of each of these theatres the millionaire must pay some
two hundred guineas a day, with the privilege of being quite alone, cut
off from the common herd who are only paying perhaps five-and-twenty
pounds a day, and with the privilege, i