crossed a line.

He dressed for dinner at eight. As he stepped into the dining-room, he
paused and stared. It was like walking into some smart London restaurant
after the theater. Gone were the long ship-boards at which for
generations human beings had been lined up like cattle at a trough. In
their place were scattered small tables, round and square, of a capacity
varying from two to eight.

Around the tables wealth rioted. There were wealthy coffee-planters, who
spent a yearly fortune on their annual trip to Paris, surrounded by
their wives and such of their offspring as were old enough to escape the
nursery table; planters, sheep- and cattle-men from the Argentine, some
of them married, all accompanied; and women. Lewis had never before seen
so many beautiful women at one time. It was _the_ boat of the season.
Over all hung an atmosphere of vintage wines.

Lewis was shown to a seat at a table for two. His _vis-à-vis_ was a
rare, lonely little man. The black studs in his shirt seemed to explain
him. He was sour and morose till he found Lewis could speak French, then
he bubbled over with information. It transpired that the room was alive
with situations.

"This is a crowded boat, but see the lady over there?"

Lewis's eyes followed the speaker's backward nod. He saw a remarkably
beautiful blonde in evening dress sitting alone at a table for four. She
kept her eyes steadily on her plate.

"We call her the Duchess," continued the little man. "She belongs to De