"I am the captain's wife."
"I presume the captain's wife is as much a passenger as the rest of us," she argued, with an offensive laugh. "I presume the captain can do what he likes with his own bridge, at any rate. If he gives one the freedom of the city, one certainly has it, beyond question; and I have always been accustomed to sit here when travelling with him. Thank you, steward—in this corner, please."
She took possession of her chair.
"If one person has the freedom of the city," I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking, "all should have it. He has no business to make distinctions where all are equal."
"All are not equal," she cried, reddening. And I remembered that she was a considerable person in her own eyes. But I said firmly, "Pardon me. All who pay the same fares are on the same footing—or should be. And there is not room here for everybody."
"The captain," said she, "can entertain his friends as he chooses, and I am one of his oldest friends, besides being related to his owners. And as for his having no business to do this or that—oh, my dear Mrs. Braye, do allow the poor man to know his own business best—I assure you he knows it perfectly, nobody better—and let him be master, at any rate, on his ship, whatever he may be in his home."
She laughed again, as she settled herself and opened her book. I was simply speechless with indignation. But, even had I been able to speak, I was not one to bandy words with that sort of person. I just rolled up my work, quietly rose, and went downstairs to my cabin on deck.
"Why do you go away?" she asked, as I passed her. "Isn't the bridge big enough for us both?"
"No," I replied. And that was my last word to her.
Going down the stairs, I met Tom coming up. He said, "Hullo, Polly, where are you off to?" I looked at him steadily—that's all. And his face clouded over. He passed on, leaving me alone.