As dark night drew on, the sea roughened: larger waves swayed strong against the vessel’s side. It was strange to reflect that blackness and water were round us, and to feel the ship ploughing straight on her pathless way, despite noise, billow, and rising gale. Articles of furniture began to fall about, and it became needful to lash them to their places; the passengers grew sicker than ever; Miss Fanshawe declared, with groans, that she must die.

“Not just yet, honey,” said the stewardess. “We’re just in port.” Accordingly, in another quarter of an hour, a calm fell upon us all; and about midnight the voyage ended.

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.