Peace was on the ship; you could hear what the Fourth in his white
ducks said to the quartermaster in his blue denims; you could count
the strokes of the electric bell in the wheel-house; peace was on
the ship as she pushed on, an ever-venturing, double-funneled
impertinence, through the sands of the ages. My eyes wandered along
a plank-line in the deck till they were arrested by a petticoat I
knew, when they returned of their own accord. I seemed to be always
seeing that petticoat.

'I think,' resumed Mrs. Morgan, whose glance had wandered in the
same direction, 'that Cecily is a very fine type of our English
girls. With those dark grey eyes, a LITTLE prominent possibly, and
that good colour--it's rather high now perhaps, but she will lose
quite enough of it in India--and those regular features, she would
make a splendid Britannia. Do you know, I fancy she must have a
great deal of character. Has she?'

'Any amount. And all of it good,' I responded, with private
dejection.

'No faults at all?' chaffed Mrs. Morgan.

I shook my head. 'Nothing,' I said sadly, 'that I can put my finger
on. But I hope to discover a few later. The sun may bring them
out.'

'Like freckles. Well, you are a lucky woman. Mine had plenty, I
assure you. Untidiness was no name for Jessie, and Mary--I'm SORRY
to say that Mary sometimes fibbed.'