"Mistah Petahs," she called faintly.
He came back, assiduous.
"On ice," she murmured. He nodded and went.
"So kind—so sympathetic," murmured Mrs. Hetherington with closed eyes.
Marcella, who had stood frowning and puzzled, was now pressed into the service.
"I think, dear, when Mistah Petahs comes back I could manage a little bread and butter—only the butter is so nasty."
"Would you like jam?" said Marcella helpfully, liking jam herself.
The thought of jam made Mrs. Hetherington feel faint.
"No, I'll have bread and butter. Get me two slices, dear—thin. And—ask Knollys if he could let you have some cayenne pepper. Bread and butter sprinkled with cayenne always does me good when my head has one of its naughty fits."
Twenty minutes later she was sitting up with sparkling eyes eating devilled bread and butter and drinking champagne daintily while Mr. Peters sat beaming and bashful and inexpressibly silly on a camp-stool in the alley-way, and the bedroom steward wondered what on earth he would do when the officers came along for cabin inspection.