The fat, bejeweled Brazilian men eyed Emma McChesney with open
approval, even talked to her, leering objectionably. Emma
McChesney refused to be annoyed. Her ten years on the road
served her in good stead now.

But most absorbing of all to Emma McChesney, watching quietly
over her book or magazine, was a tall, erect, white-bearded
Argentine who, with his family, occupied chairs near hers. His
name had struck her with the sound of familiarity when she read
it on the passenger list. She had asked the deck-steward to
point out the name's owner. "Pages," she repeated to herself,
worriedly, "Pages? P----" Suddenly she knew. Pages y
Hernandez, the owner of the great Buenos Aires shop--a shop finer
than those of Paris. And this was Pages! All the Featherloom
instinct in Emma McChesney came to the surface and stayed there,
seething.

That was the morning of the second day out. By afternoon, she
had bribed and maneuvered so that her deck chair was next that of
the Pages-family flock of chairs. Senor Pages reminded her of
one of those dashing, white-haired, distinguished-looking men
whose likeness graces the cover of a box of your favorite cigars.

General Something-or-other-ending-in-z he should have been, with
a revolutionary background. He dressed somberly in black, like
most of the other Argentine men on board. There was Senora
Pages, very fat, very indolent, very blank, much given to pink
satin and diamonds at dinner. Senorita Pages, over-powdered,
overfrizzed, marvelously gowned, with overplumpness just a few
years away, sat quietly by Senora Pages' side, but her darting,