At five o'clock a steward came along to explain that he had looked for
her at lunch-time, but could not find her.

"I've reserved you a place at my table, miss," he said. "You'd better
get in early and take it. These emigrants, they push and shove so--and
expect the best of everything. And mind you, not a penny to be had out
of them--not one penny! It's 'Knollys this' and 'Knollys that' all
day--my name being Knollys, miss--you'd think I was a dog."

She went along the alley-way with him. He went on, aggrievedly:

"Simply because they've never had anyone to order about before, and they
aren't used to it. But anything you want, let me know, miss, and I'll
see you all right."

When she got into the dining saloon she found small wars in progress.
About a hundred and fifty people were trying to sit down in a hundred
seats. The stewards looked harassed as they explained that there was
another meal-time half an hour after the first. Knollys was trying, with
impassive dignity, to prove mathematically to an old lady that by
waiting until six o'clock for her tea to-day and automatically shifting
all her meal-times on half an hour she was losing nothing; and, after
all, it would all be the same whether she had her tea at five or six or
seven a hundred years hence. But she thought there was some catch in it,
for she expressed an intention of seeing the captain, and then, thinking
better of it, stood behind an already occupied chair with the air of
Horatius holding the bridge.

When at last order was restored and Marcella sat down, she found that