“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
out into the sunlight and into the focus of men’s eyes, and so she stretched her legs and snuggled down into her bevy of pink and blue silk pillows (yes, madam, some ladies do carry them on board ship) and good-naturedly set herself against fate, much as a happily and facetiously obstinate puppy will allow itself to be dragged around by its tail.
The nerves of the older women would have been set on edge by the noises around her,—but not Lily Trevelyan’s. She had no nerves. Sailors ran up and down directly over her head. Below her she could feel the deep-down distant throb of the engine and the vibration of the screw. The seething of the waves along the side rose and fell on her ears with the movement of the ship and the wooden partitions squeaked and wheezed, with the slow but regular upheaval and subsidence, like the crack of a monstrous shoe. But these sounds did not disturb her.
Children began to throw ring toss forward, and to squeal and quarrel; down on the main deck the four male passengers who had monopolized the port (the best) shuffleboard area since the first day of the voyage were shovel-96
