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By Root 802 0

I thought she had not been smoking long. Come to think of it, her presence on such an inhospitable and deserted bit of deck might not be unrelated to her inexperience: hiding from a disapproving parent, no doubt. “The fancy-dress ball,” she explained, and then bent over the match to shelter it, nearly setting her fur coat on fire in the process. At last—success. With an air of accomplishment she let the wind snatch away the spent match, placed the ivory mouthpiece to her lips with two elegant fingers, sucked in a lungful of smoke, and promptly collapsed in a gagging, retching fit of coughs that left her teary-eyed and weak-kneed. I sat with my finger between the pages, watching to see that she didn’t stagger over the railings, but the fit subsided without my assistance. She hiccoughed once, swabbed her eyes, and tottered over to collapse onto the empty deck chair next to me, glaring accusingly at the cigarette that burnt serenely in its holder.

“Next time just hold the smoke in your mouth,” I suggested, “instead of pulling it all the way into your lungs.”

“Whew!” she exclaimed. “I mean to say, I’ve smoked before, of course, but I guess the wind . . .”

“Quite,” I said, and opened my book again.

“So, what are you going as?”

“Sorry? Oh, the fancy-dress ball. I didn’t realise they had one.” I might have done, had I stopped to consider the matter. Shipping lines invented all sorts of ways to keep their passengers from succumbing to the throes of boredom, and encouraging wealthy men and women to make utter fools of themselves was a popular ploy, not the least because it ate up hours and hours in the preparations. “I shouldn’t think I’ll be going.”

“Oh, but you have to!” she said, sounding so disappointed I had to wonder again if we didn’t know each other. But before I could ask, I noticed her burning tobacco sinking forgotten, dangerously close to her coat.

“Er, watch the end,” I urged her.

“Oh! Gosh,” she exclaimed, patting furiously at the smoldering fur and plucking the still-burning cigarette out of the holder, tossing it into the wind, which I hoped might be strong enough to carry the ember clear of the unsuspecting passengers below. “Maybe I’m not cut out for smoking.”

It was on the end of my tongue to reassure her to never mind, she’d pick it up with practice, but I kept the thought to myself. Why should I encourage the maintenance of a filthy habit?

“Mama wants me to dress as a Kewpie doll, but I was thinking of being an Indian dancing girl—you know, scarfs and bangles.”

A certain degree of negotiation was clearly in store for the girl and her mother. Who was she, anyway?

As if I had voiced the question aloud, she thrust the ivory holder into her pocket and stuck out her hand. “Sorry, I’m being rude. I’m Sybil Goodheart. Everyone calls me Sunny.”

“Mary Russell,” I offered in return.

“And of course, you’re just joking about not going to the ball. I’m so bad, I never can tell when someone’s pulling my leg. What are you going as?”

I gave up; the child was too persistent for me. “Perhaps I’ll just wear my pyjamas and go as the downstairs neighbour, come to complain.”

She clapped her hand across her mouth and giggled, blushing slightly, perhaps at the idea of a proper lady coming in her nightwear. For a Flapper, she was easily shocked.

“You’re an American,” I said. If the accent hadn’t told me, the brashness would have.

“From Chicago. You ever been there?”

“I passed through once, when I was young.”

“It’s got to be the world’s stinkiest city,” she declared. “What’re you going to India for?”

“Er, my husband and I have business there.” Impossible to give the deflating retort a proper Englishwoman would have wielded at the importunity of the question; poor Sunny would have gone behind the clouds.

“Is that nifty old—er, older man your husband?” she asked in astonishment. “I mean to say, Mama and I noticed him earlier when you were on the deck.”

“That is my husband, yes,” I told her. And if she delivered a third rudeness, I would smack her. Verbally, of course. “And you, why are you going out?”

“I’m a little