"Oh yes. I promised Gran. But it's hard to remember everything," he said
resignedly. But his washing was not very comprehensive; Marcella
promised herself a busy half-hour with him in the bathroom next morning.

He was asleep in two minutes, but Marcella did not attempt to undress
for a long time. She dragged the cabin trunk out from under the bunk
very quietly, and, sitting down on it, frowned. A queer thing had
happened to her. Over all her early life her father had towered like a
Colossus. The rest of the world had been filled with friends--friendly
visions, friendly people, friendly ghosts. She had not met anyone unkind
before. Conditions had never been anything but unkind; she expected cold
and hunger, hardness and discomfort. But that people could be unkind to
each other she had never realized. Then had come Louis's tale, which had
horrified her, Diddy's tale which had grieved her at first and then
puzzled her as she saw how easily the image of the sick girl was
replaced by that of a man who gave her meringues. Ole Fred had
frightened her: Mr. Peters had at first seemed ridiculous and then
cruel. Most of the people on the ship seemed cruel, when she came to
reflect about it. Something cruel had happened that very morning. She
had noticed, when they came aboard at Tilbury, a very romantic figure
standing on deck; he fitted in much better with her conceptions of
travel in far lands than did the very respectable, commonplace fathers
of families she saw scattered about the deck. He was a man in knee
breeches, leather leggings, a bright blue shirt and a claret and buff
blazer. He wore a wide-brimmed brown hat and a fierce expression. From
his leather belt hung a huge clasp knife and two small pistols. She
thought him very funny, but very much like herself when she had dressed
up as King Arthur. She sympathized entirely with his dressing a part.
Later she heard shouts of cruel laughter as he explained valiantly that
he had never in his life been from his native village in the Welsh