“I know, Miss Beresford. I’m sorry.” What she said was true enough; what she didn’t know was that I turned up for aperitifs with the passengers more or less at the point of a gun. Standing company orders stated that it was as much a part of the ship’s officers’ duties to entertain the passengers as to sail the ship, and as Captain Bullen loathed all passengers with a fierce and total loathing, he saw to it that most of the entertaining fell to me. I nodded at the big crate now hovering over the hatchway of number four hold, then at the piled-up crates at the quayside. “I’m afraid I have work to do. Four or five hours at least. Can’t even manage lunch today, far less an aperitif.”

“Not Miss Beresford. Susan.” It was as if she had heard only my first few words. “How often do I have to ask you?”

Until we reach New York, I said to myself, and even then it will be no use. Aloud I said, smiling, “You mustn’t make things difficult for me. Regulations require that we treat all passengers with courtesy, consideration, and respect.” And self-respect made me resent the young and unmarried female passengers who regarded me as a source of idle amusement for their all too many idle hours; particularly was this true with rich young idle females — and it was common knowledge that Julius A. Beresford required the full-time services of a whole corps of accountants just to tot up his annual profits. “Especially with respect, Miss Beresford,” I finished.

“You’re hopeless.” She laughed. I was too tiny a pebble to cause even a ripple in her smiling pool of complacency. “And no lunch, you poor man. I thought you were looking pretty glum as I came along.” She glanced at the winch driver, then at the seamen manhandling the suspended crate into position on the floor of the hold. “Your men don’t seem too pleased at the prospect either. They are a morose looking lot.”