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swivelled round in his chair, staring in the direction of the foyer doors. I was in time to see Wallis leaving on the arm of Scurra.
    ‘Who is that man?’ Melchett asked. ‘He seems to know everyone on board.’
    ‘To hell with him,’ I growled. ‘To hell with all of them.’ I was hungry enough to eat a horse and my upper arms were hurting like the devil from my exercise at the punch-bag. Melchett, looking concerned, attempted to jolly me up.
    ‘I met a man this tea-time who used to know you at St Mark’s. I didn’t catch his name. He works in his father’s business in Boston . . . something to do with dry goods. Tall and clean-shaven. Rather shy in manner . . . not the pushy sort . . . would you know who I mean?’
    ‘No,’ I snapped. In that floating room whose mirrored walls duplicated the crowd milling back and forth beneath the trembling chandeliers, the familiar, similar reflections raced like demons across the embellished glass.
    ‘He said you were frightfully good on the tennis courts and had once lent him money when he was in a jam.’
    ‘For God’s sake,’ I burst out. ‘The world consists of men who know us. Look around you. This place is chock-a-block with people who went to the same schools, the same universities, attended the same fencing classes, shared the same dancing masters, music teachers, Latin tutors, tennis coaches—’
    ‘Morgan,’ Melchett said. ‘You’re shouting.’
    ‘I could pick out fifty or more I’ve known half my life and Lord knows how many others I’ve shared a dinner table with in half the capitals of Europe. There isn’t a photograph taken from here to the Nile that doesn’t feature twenty or more of us lined up to watch the dicky-bird.’
    ‘If you say so,’ he murmured, hoping to calm me.
    ‘Why, half the older men here have even shared the same mistresses.’
    ‘Steady on,’ he hissed.
    ‘One big unhappy family,’ I concluded gloomily, and got up and left. I guess poor old Charlie was relieved.
    Once in the foyer I sped up the stairs and out on to the deck. Here I walked furiously up and down, muttering aloud, taking the part of both prosecution and defence. I can’t recall what case I was arguing, beyond it had something to do with the transparency of men and the inscrutability of women, but I reckon I must have sounded fairly unhinged.
    I was on the point of returning to make my peace with Melchett when I heard a peculiar cry, high and fierce like a cat caught by the tail. It came from the shadows cast by the overhang of a life-boat. Then I heard Scurra’s unmistakable voice. He was tussling with someone reclining in a steamer chair. For a wild moment I feared it might be Wallis, then he dodged to one side to avoid an outflung hand and I saw it was Rosenfelder’s woman.
    ‘Her friend didn’t board at Queenstown,’ I said.
    ‘It would seem not,’ he replied breathlessly.
    At that instant the woman got the better of him and leaping to her feet made a dash for the rail, yowling horribly. Scurra and I fled in pursuit and succeeded in seizing her by either arm. He and I were both a little under six foot in height yet she towered above us. Wrestling to restrain her I couldn’t help thinking we resembled those tugs at Southampton endeavouring to drag the Titanic out of the path of the SS New York .
    ‘Have you a cabin on B deck?’ Scurra panted, the woman thrashing back and forth in our grip like a tree caught in the wind.
    ‘I’m a deck below.’
    ‘Fetch Rosenfelder,’ he ordered, and I let go of the woman and scooted towards the gymnasium. No sooner had I hurled myself through the doors than I collided with Thomas Andrews.
    He said, ‘There appears to be some fault with four of the dormitory bath taps in E accommodation.’
    ‘It will be the washers,’ I replied and raced on.
    Rosenfelder wasn’t in the saloon or either of the restaurants. Nor was he to be found in the Café Parisien. Wallis was there. She called out to me but