"My room-mate, that I told you about. He is a splendid fellow."
"Can you see him anywhere at this moment?" she asked, looking around.
"Yes—he is there, talking with the second officer—the man with the white cap. If he comes this way I will present you."
She said there was no need of haste, that she did not wish to meet the passengers any more than was absolutely necessary; when we went to the table would be quite time enough.
"Mr. Camwell," she added, after a pause, "you can't imagine how I feel. If I had dreamed I should experience such sensations I never would have come."
"What sensations?" I asked, rather shortly, for I thought she might consider my feelings a little.
"The sensation of being a deceiver of those about me; the shame of passing for what I am not; the dread of somehow being exposed for what I am."
I grew angrier as she proceeded.
"If you were not ill," I said, "I should be out of patience with you. What awful crime have you committed? You are travelling in a perfectly respectable way, with a respectable party of people; occupying a room with a lady; acting in a rational manner except for these vagaries, which I must ask you to suppress. To be sure the name assigned you on the passenger list is not your own, but plenty of people travel incognito, even princes and dukes, for that matter. You make a mountain out of a molehill. Your whole journey will be ruined—and mine, if you care anything about that—if you go on as you have begun."
She begged my pardon humbly, saying she would do her best to amend her conduct in the future. And, as usual, the moment she took this attitude, I repented of my hard words and assured her I had no intention of being too critical.