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“That’s good. Who from?” He had not stopped working, but his tone showed no lack of interest.

“Miss Whitney—and she’s coming, I think!”

Lack of decision was not one of Tony’s many failings.

“Sit behind that big coil of rope and keep your head down. If I stand here no one can see you from above or in front.”

Pamela did as she was told; the advice was obviously good, though given so curtly that she hardly felt inclined to say thank you for it. The pursuing skirts rustled on after a short but harrowing pause, and Tony spoke again.

“She’s gone,” he said, prudently addressing the horizon.

“She won’t be back for a little while. Are you cramped there?”

“No, it’s quite comfortable. Where is she now? Can you see her?”

“No.”

“She’ll come back this way soon. She’s always following me.”

“That must be beastly.”

“Do they follow you then?”

“Not that way. But I know I shouldn’t like it.”

“What way do they follow you?”

“Oh, to see if I’ve done my work mostly.”

“Well, Miss Whitney comes to see about things like that, in a way, and to tell me to go and get tidied. I’m always being tidied.”

“Things generally are, on a ship,” said Tony perfunctorily, taking a fresh cloth to his brass.

“I’m not a thing!” Pamela said with some indignation. He turned and looked at her for the first time since her appearance. The Mediterranean eyes were quite stormy.

“Beg your pardon. Of course you aren’t. What’s your name?”

“I have lots and lots of names,” said Pamela with dignity.