WHITEWASH
stationary tables. Excited people were claiming their belongings, or holding high-voiced conversations. The stewards rushed madly by, beset with countless questions, and unable or unwilling to answer any. Philippa had to wait. A hasty exploration of the corridor near at hand showed her that, numerically, she was far from her destination. A fair-haired, stupid-eyed, German cabin-boy, who hugged a trumpet and gazed vacantly on her, was at last persuaded to inform her that 148 would be on the other side, and "oop-stairs."
Following his directions, Philippa at last found the cabin numbers dwindling—180, 176. She came out of one of the side aisles, and came face to face with Victoria Claudel. The shock was so great that she almost dropped the treasure-box. But Victoria, who was bidding an affectionate farewell to a girl friend, merely turned her back and proceeded with her conversation.
Philippa had to pass them to reach her number, and a dull fear crossed her heart as if she had neared something baneful. Again her aunt's
