“And as to the custom,” Mrs. Foston Rowe continued, “of serving gentlemen before ladies, it is, I suppose, peculiar to this steamer.”
Quest hastily laid down his spoon, raised the cup of bouillon and presented it with a little bow to his neighbour.
“Pray allow me, madam,” he begged. “The steward was to blame.”
Mrs. Foston Rowe did not hesitate for a moment. She broke up some toast in the bouillon and commenced to sip it.
“Your politeness will at least teach them a lesson,” she said. “I am used to travel by the P. & O. and from what I have seen of this steamer—”
The spoon suddenly went clattering from her fingers. She caught at the sides of the table, there was a strange look in her face. With scarcely a murmur she fell back in her seat. Quest leaned hurriedly forward.
“Captain!” he exclaimed. “Steward! Mrs. Foston Rowe is ill.”
There was a slight commotion. The Doctor came hurrying up from the other side of the salon. He bent over her and his face grew grave.
“What is it?” the Captain demanded.
The Doctor glanced at him meaningly.