I was sorry: yes, I was sorry. My resting-time was past; my difficulties⁠—my stringent difficulties⁠—recommenced. When I went on deck, the cold air and black scowl of the night seemed to rebuke me for my presumption in being where I was: the lights of the foreign seaport town, glimmering round the foreign harbour, met me like unnumbered threatening eyes. Friends came on board to welcome the Watsons; a whole family of friends surrounded and bore away Miss Fanshawe; I⁠—but I dared not for one moment dwell on a comparison of positions.

Yet where should I go? I must go somewhere. Necessity dare not be nice. As I gave the stewardess her fee⁠—and she seemed surprised at receiving a coin of more value than, from such a quarter, her coarse calculations had probably reckoned on⁠—I said, “Be kind enough to direct me to some quiet, respectable inn, where I can go for the night.”

She not only gave me the required direction, but called a commissionaire, and bid him take charge of me, and⁠— not my trunk, for that was gone to the customhouse.