There is something inexpressibly sorrowful and solemn in a burial at sea. The body, wrapped in a sail, with iron shot at its feet, was placed on the lower deck near the open bulwarks, and was covered with the Union Jack. A number of the passengers were present, leaning from the upper deck, but many of the ladies, among whom was Mrs. Pellypop, were reading the service for the dead to themselves in the saloon. The captain, surrounded by his officers, read the service over the deceased, and at a signal the body was pushed over the side, slipping from under the Union Jack, and fell with a dull splash into the sea. Then everyone dispersed, the engines, which had been slowed down during the burial, resumed their usual speed, and life on board went on as usual. There was a gloom, however, over all the ship, for it was not an ordinary death, and it was not until the "Neptune" reached Gibraltar that the passengers began to recover their usual gaiety.
Meanwhile Ronald Monteith had become the slave of Carmela Cotoner, and, judging from her gracious manner towards him, she was in no wise displeased at having him at her feet. Ronald had hitherto laughed at the tender passion, but now he was being paid back for insulting the god of Love, as he found out to his cost. He was always at Carmela's elbow--carried her rugs and pillows about for her, danced with her, read poetry to her, and, in fact, was so constant in his attentions, that it was soon patent to the whole ship that Monteith was madly in love with the girl from Malta.
And, indeed, she was called nothing else. Mrs. Pellypop, not knowing her name at first, had given her that title, and everyone else followed suit. She was the belle of the ship, vice Kate Lester resigned, and was always followed by an adoring crowd of young men, of whom Ronald grew unspeakably jealous, and would get quite sulky if she smiled or spoke to anyone else. He carried this absurd behaviour to such an extent that Pat Ryan took him to task one day for his sins.
"You are a jolly old ass, Ronald," observed the candid Irishman, "to go on like this, making a fool of yourself."
"I can't help it," said Monteith, ruefully surveying at a distance a group of young fellows standing round Carmela; "just look at her; she doesn't care a bit about me."
"Of course, you say that," said Pat, lighting a cigarette, "because she doesn't devote herself exclusively to you. I tell ye what, girls don't like being made faces at because they speak to another fellow; hang it, I've seen you speak to girls enough."
"That was before I--I," hesitatingly, "met Miss Cotoner."
"Before you were in love, ye mean," retorted Pat; "begad, ye've got the disease badly. Are ye going to marry her?"
"I will, if she'll have me."
"Then why don't you ask her?"