"Seems to me that the service is going to be
abominable."
The steward, who had just arrived, presented a cup of bouillon to Quest.
The others had all been served. Quest stirred it thoughtfully.
"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.
"She had better be carried out," he whispered.
It was all done in a moment. There was nothing but Mrs. Foston Rowe's
empty place at the table and the cup of bouillon, to remind them of what
had happened.
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