“Ah, well, now you will have no more anxiety. Letters from on board ship are always difficult to write and unsatisfactory,” Alicia said. Miss Filbert's had been postcards, with a wide unoccupied margin at the bottom.
“The Sutlej seems to have arrived on the third; that's a day later, isn't it, than we made out she would be?”
Alicia consulted her memory, and found she couldn't be sure. Lindsay was vexed by a similar uncertainty, but they agreed that the date was early in the month.
“Did they get comfortably through the Canal? I remember being tied up there for forty-eight hours once.”
“I don't think she says, so I fancy it must have been all right. The voyage is bound to do her good. I've asked the Simpsons to watch particularly for any sign of malaria later, though. One can't possibly know what she may have imported from that slum in Bentinck Street.”
“And what was it like after Gibraltar?” Alicia asked, with a barely perceptible glance at the envelope edges showing over his breast-pocket.
“I'll look,” and he sorted one out. It was pink and glossy, with a diagonal water-stripe. Lindsay drew out the single sheet it contained, and she could see that every line was ruled and faintly pencilled. “Let me see,” said he. “To begin at the beginning. 'We arrived home on the third,'—you see it was the third,—'making very slow progress the last day on account of a fog in the Channel'—ah, a fog in the Channel!—'which was a great disappointment to some on board who were impatient to meet their loved ones. One lady had not seen her family of five for seven years. She said she would like to get out and swim, and you could not wonder. She was my s—stable companion.”
“Quaint!” said Alicia.
“She has picked up the expression on board. 'So—so she told me this.' Oh yes. 'Now that it is all over I have written the voyage down among my mercies in spite of three days' sickness, when you could keep nothing on—' What are those two words, Miss Livingstone? I can't quite make them out.”
“'Your'—cambric?—stom—'stomach'—'your stomach.'”