though as a rule with plenty of obviously rich men and be-diamonded
ladies.

But every tide has its backwash; and it so happened that the _Cambuscan_
held as many second and third-class passengers as she could stow.
They were--their general air proclaimed it--the failures of South
African immigration; men and women who had gone out too early and given
up the struggle just when the propitious moment arrived. Seediness
marked the second-class; the third-class came from all parts, from the
Cape to Pietermaritzburg, but they might have conspired to assemble on
the _Cambuscan_ as a protest against high hopes and dreams of a promised
land. The protest, let me add, was an entirely passive one. They stood
aloof, watching the flashy gaieties of the hurricane-deck from their own
sad penumbra--a dejected, wistful, whispering throng. "They simply
don't occur," one of the be-diamonded ladies remarked to me, and went on
to praise the U-- Line for arranging it so. With nightfall--or a trifle
later--they vanished; and at most, when the time came for my last pipe
before turning in, two or three figures would be left pacing there
forward, pacing and turning and pacing again. I wondered who these
figures were, and what their thoughts. They and the sleepers hived
beneath them belonged to another world--a world driven with ours through
wave and darkness, urged by the same propellers, controlled by the same
helmsman, separated only by thin partitions which the touch of a rock
would tear down like paper; yet, while the partitions stood, separated
as no city separates its rich and poor. Only on Sundays did these two
worlds consent to meet. They had, it appeared, a common God, and joined
for a few minutes once a week in worshipping Him.

The be-diamonded lady, however, was not quite accurate. Once, and once
only--it was the second day out from Madeira--the third-class passengers