Long sullen undulations swept noiselessly past the ship.  Once, after a steady climb up a rolling hill of water, the Sirdar quickly pecked at the succeeding valley, and the propeller gave a couple of angry flaps on the surface, whilst a tremor ran through the stout iron rails on which the girl’s arms rested.

The crew were busy too.  Squads of Lascars raced about, industriously obedient to the short shrill whistling of jemadars and quartermasters.  Boat lashings were tested and tightened, canvas awnings stretched across the deck forward, ventilator cowls twisted to new angles, and hatches clamped down over the wooden gratings that covered the holds.  Officers, spotless in white linen, flitted quietly to and fro.  When the watch was changed.  Iris noted that the “chief” appeared in an old blue suit and carried oilskins over his arm as he climbed to the bridge.

Nature looked disturbed and fitful, and the ship responded to her mood.  There was a sense of preparation in the air, of coming ordeal, of restless foreboding.  Chains clanked with a noise the girl never noticed before; the tramp of hurrying men on the hurricane deck overhead sounded heavy and hollow.  There was a squeaking of chairs that was abominable when people gathered up books and wraps and staggered ungracefully towards the companion-way.  Altogether Miss Deane was not wholly pleased with the preliminaries of a typhoon, whatever the realities might be.

And then, why did gales always spring up at the close of day?  Could they not start after breakfast, rage with furious grandeur during lunch, and die away peacefully at dinner-time, permitting one to sleep in comfort without that straining and groaning of the ship which seemed to imply a sharp attack of rheumatism in every joint?

Why did that silly old woman allude to her contemplated marriage to Lord Ventnor, retailing the gossip of Hong Kong with such malicious emphasis?  For an instant Iris tried to shake the railing in comic anger.  She hated Lord Ventnor.  She did not want to marry him, or anybody else, just yet.  Of course her father had hinted approval of his lordship’s obvious intentions.  Countess of Ventnor!  Yes, it was a nice title.  Still, she wanted another couple of years of careless freedom; in any event, why should Lady Tozer pry and probe?

And finally, why did the steward—­oh, poor old Sir John!  What would have happened if the ice had slid down his neck?  Thoroughly comforted by this gleeful hypothesis, Miss Deane seized a favorable opportunity to dart across to the starboard side and see if Captain Ross’s “heavy bank of cloud in the north-west” had put in an appearance.