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bones of her face.
    â€œI demand you do something,” she said.
    She was not a large woman and was of what Pam always thought of as the top-heavy type, believing that almost all women incline either to top- or bottom-heaviness. But, standing in the middle of the room, looking up at the tall ship’s captain, Mrs. Macklin seemed to fill the room.
    â€œCertainly,” Captain Cunningham said. “Whatever I can. But—about what?”
    â€œI supposed,” she said, “that this would be a well-run ship. I was assured it would prove a well-run ship.”
    She spoke distinctly; although the ship moved a little on the quiet sea, she did not sway. And yet it was evident that, again, she had drunk more than she had been wise to drink.
    â€œIt is,” Captain Cunningham said, simply, with patience. “You have something to complain of?”
    â€œComplain of?” she said. “Complain of indeed! Somebody in my room last night. After dinner. Went over everything. Your well-run ship! A thieving steward.”
    â€œOur people are carefully selected,” Captain Cunningham said, and was entirely formal, although there was frost on his voice. “You make a serious charge, Mrs. Macklin. What was stolen?”
    â€œStolen?” she said. “Nothing stolen. Probably heard me coming. Nosing around. Looking.”
    â€œProbably,” Cunningham said, “the stewardess straightened up. That’s her job.”
    â€œYou think I don’t know?” Mrs. Macklin said, and her voice was higher than before. “Think I can’t tell?”
    Quite clearly, the captain did.
    â€œPrecisely what—” he began, and she interrupted.
    â€œAs bad as the rest,” she said. “This purser of yours. This other captain.”
    â€œOh,” Cunningham said. “You’ve seen the purser? Captain Smythe-Hornsby? I’m sure they’re doing everything that can be done, Mrs. Macklin.”
    Captain Cunningham spoke calmly, seriously; standing tall and competent, he epitomized reassurance. Nor was there anything in his manner to indicate that he did not take Mrs. Macklin as seriously as she could wish. And yet it was as if his quiet words had touched a trigger.
    Violence in the aging woman had been evident until then, but it had been restrained. But then all restraint vanished—then as if there had been some explosion inside her, Mrs. Macklin began to scream—at the captain, at all of them. Her words—her screamed words—lost coherence; the tightly stretched skin of her face became red and mottled.
    Captain Cunningham was against her, like the rest. She screamed at him—“You don’t care. Nobody—” She had a right to protection—she—“Kill me in my bed,” she screamed at him, and turned to the others. “All of you!” she said. “Laughing—laughing—they’ll kill me.” She became momentarily obscene. She seemed to hear her own words. “Don’t say those things,” she said. “You hear me? Don’t—” She moved toward the captain, as if to claw at his unchanging face.
    It was something—it was a drunken outburst—from which one wanted to get away—something from which one wanted to run away. At first no one moved. Then Peter Cunningham moved. He stretched out strong hands and grasped the woman’s shoulders. He held her, for a moment, saying nothing.
    And, held so, she at once stopped her screamed, inarticulate tirade. She stood quietly; then she said, “What did you say?”
    Captain Cunningham said nothing. He merely looked at her.
    â€œI’m afraid,” Mrs. Macklin said, quite calmly, “that I allowed myself to get a little excited.”
    You could have laughed at that. Nobody laughed.
    â€œCan’t I offer you a drink?” Captain Cunningham asked her, as a host asks a guest.
    â€œWhy, thank you,” she said.