the corner, with the weather-beaten face—the Knight of the Bronzed Features—congratulate ourselves on being the guests of the M. & N. Sir Peter produces his card of invitation. So does Sir Thomas; so does the Weather-beaten One. I feel in all my pockets. No. I've left it behind me. Sir Peter, Sir Thomas, and the Weather-beaten Stranger eye me suspiciously. There is a lull in the conversation. I tell my story, and try to interest them. It strikes me that they don't believe it; but my railway ticket proves my veracity. They brighten up again, but are evidently still far from clear that they are not travelling with an impostor.

"I don't see your name on the list," says Sir Peter, scanning a large card through his glasses.

"What list?" I ask, somewhat disturbed.

"List of guests," replies Sir Thomas, examining his card.

Weather-beaten Man hasn't got a list; he asks to be allowed to examine Sir Peter's. Aha! the Weather-beaten Man's name is not there. Sir Thomas and Sir Peter eye him with suspicion now. He explains and tells his story. If my name had been on the list I should have disbelieved him; but as it isn't, I only think that his account of being here at all is not so plausible and clear as my own.

"You've got the number of your berth?" asks Sir Thomas, looking round at me doubtfully, as if he were giving me a last chance.

"Berth!" I exclaim. "No, I haven't. You see I only telegraphed——" and here I am about to repeat my entire explanation, when Sir Peter and Sir Thomas cut it short by shaking their heads ominously. "I'm going away on Saturday night," I say, as if the prospect of my leaving them soon would soften them a bit.

"Saturday!" returns Sir Peter, with a chuckle. "'Pon my soul I don't see how you're going to do that." And he smiles derisively.

"No one goes on shore till Monday," observes Sir Thomas, with decision. "Certainly not," says the Weather-beaten Man, who is not on the list, turning against me; "and, for my part, I don't care how long I stay in such good quarters."

After this there is an uncomfortable silence. Sir Thomas says there are two hundred and fifty guests. Heavens! and I had thought it was a small and select party of genial bachelors! We read our papers, the Weather-beaten Man in his corner, I in mine. Sir Peter and Sir Thomas smoke, and then both fall asleep. Waking up, they fall to conversing about a trip they have already had on the Regina, comparing notes of comfort and so forth. I'm out of it. So is the Weather-beaten Stranger. I begin to wish I hadn't come, or, at all events, that I had brought my invitation card as proof of my identity, and a verification of my statement. Wish, too, I'd brought Rossher's telegram. No good wishing. I haven't. I'm not there yet; but what frightens me is, that as there are two hundred and fifty passengers, if I am the only one who wants to go on shore on Saturday night, they will never upset all the arrangements for the sake of sending me off in a launch or a gig, or whatever they have in use. And if I can't return Saturday——However, here I am, and I'll go through with it.

Southampton, directly alongside of the Regina. Magnificent vessel. Crowd trooping in out of train. Men in uniform at gangway, directing everyone to go below and get billeted. I join the crowd descending the companion. As everyone comes to a table where certain M.& N. officials are standing, each person shows his or her invitation-card, and receives a number. Then they disappear, some singly, some in couples, as if it were the Ark, and Rossher were Noah settling it all. Evidently the first thing necessary is the invitation-card. Ha! there is Rossher in the distance, at the far corner of the table. I wave my hand to him in the heartiest manner, expressive of my delight at seeing him, and I am sincerely grateful, for I feel at this moment that Rossher is the only friend I have in this strange world, from which I am liable at any moment to be summarily ejected, being unable to show my raison d'être in the shape of the invitation-card.

"Name?" says a sharp man in ordinary civilian's dress, from whom, judging by his tone and business-like manner, I feel confident I can expect no mercy. "I haven't got one," I reply, whereat he frowns as if he didn't mean to stand any nonsense, and I apologise humbly for having mistaken his question. I thought he was asking for my card. "No," he says, eying me suspiciously. "Name! Where is it? Down here?" And he hands me the confounded list, at which I make no pretence of looking, but cast an appealing look towards Rossher, who at that moment, most fortunately for me, comes up, having finished shaking hands with two hundred out of the two hundred and fifty arrivals.

"Ah! you here!" he exclaims, with an air of cheery surprise. "That's capital. Didn't know you were coming."

I am considerably staggered. "Why," I say to him, protesting, "I telegraphed——"

"Ah!" says Rossher in an off-hand way, "then I didn't receive it. You wait quietly here, and we'll see what can be done for you."

I catch Weather-beaten Stranger's eye. He is waiting, also, with his back against a cabin-door, most patiently. I meet several friends. I explain to them all, over and over again, my melancholy story, and while I do so I stand as near the table as possible, so that the sad tale may reach some of the officials, and excite them to pity and immediate action on my behalf. My friends nod at me pleasantly, hope it will come all right, and leave me, to see after their own comforts. What a selfish, unsympathetic world this is!

"Hallo!" says a young man, not in naval costume, but evidently an official of some sort, blithely turning towards me and mentioning my name inquiringly, which I immediately acknowledge, whereupon he continues, "I'm delighted to meet you. My name's Crick." I smile, and shake his hand warmly, as if congratulating him on his appellation. "Where's your berth?" Then I have to explain it all over to him. I'm becoming sick of these explanations. They're asking me for the number of my berth, as if they wanted an extract from my baptismal-register, or my marriage-certificate. "Don't know what you'll do," says Crick, smiling as if the whole thing were a good joke. And I thought he could help me! "Where's your dinner-place?" he asks. Good heavens! I don't know—how should I? Where's his dinner-place? "Oh," he replies, "mine's aft. If you like to join us, we'll find room. It's very jolly. Not so swell, you know." No, I don't know, and haven't an idea what he means. But if I can't get dinner "forward," I'll dine "aft" with pleasure. Rossher comes up.

"All right," he says to Crick. "Just take this gentleman" (meaning me) "to the Saloon; there are several spare places." Rossher pats me on the back, encouragingly. Oh, how grateful I am to Rossher! Crick says, "Yes, Sir," (what is Crick?) and takes me to the Saloon—beautifully laid out for two hundred and fifty guests—and finds me a capital place. Why didn't he do this before? No matter, it's settled now. First bell sounds. Crick directs