The moment our magnificent liner left the dock I heaved a sigh of
relief. Tom would be mine for two whole weeks, and all the questions I
had saved up would be answered. That evening he announced: "We don't
dress for dinner the first night out."

"Dress for dinner?" I asked. "What do you mean?"

And then very gently he gave me my first lesson. I had never seen
anything bigger than a ferry-boat. How could I guess that even on an
ocean liner we did not leave formality behind? The "party dresses",
so carefully selected, the long, rich velvet cape I had thought
outrageously extravagant, and the satin slippers and the suede--I had
packed them all carefully in the trunk and sent them to the hold of the
ship. But, with the aid of a little cash, the steward finally produced
my treasure trunk, and thereafter I dressed for dinner.

The two weeks I had expected my husband to give me held no quiet hours.
There is no such thing, except when one is seasick, as being alone
aboard a ship. Tom was popular, good at cards and deck games, always
ready to play. And the fourth day out I was too ill to worry about the
customs at the Court of St. James.

It was not until just before we reached England that I began to feel
myself again. I stood on deck, thrilled with the tall ships and the
steamers, the fishing smacks and the smaller craft in Southampton
harbor.

"What will be the first thing you do in London?" somebody asked me.

"Go to Mayfair to find the home of Becky Sharp," I answered. Becky