“C. Q.”; or, In the Wireless House
she had carefully selected her seat, she commanded a full view of Cloud’s face, and during the five verses rendered by the gloomy vocalist she continued to scrutinize it intently.
“It can’t be! And yet it is!” she repeated blankly. “What on earth can he be doing here?”
Suddenly Ashurst gave a muffled explosion and stumbled out of the door, followed by the bride and her husband, and presently, after another last look at the second-class passenger, by Mrs. Trevelyan.
“Rahly!" Ashurst was exclaiming, in a convulsion of mirth. “Did you ever, now! Rahly! A man like that!”
“It was funny, was n’t it, Mrs. Trevelyan?” laughed the bride apologetically, as the latter joined the others outside in the moonlight.
“Rahly! Rahly! Rahly! Ashurst! Why do you make such an idiot of yourself?” snapped Mrs. Trevelyan. “I ’m going to bed. Good night, everybody!”
And she turned and moved quickly along the passageway leading to the main saloon. The rat-faced purser, a susceptible young English-54
