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 One was a perfect old woman, and I'm sure coddled himself no end. He was worse than Aunt Agatha. The other was a bit better, but he was a nasty old man, and I'm glad he came to a sad end. I don't quite mean what you think I mean by that, but you will see later on. It was he who was one of the special admirers of the lady whom we all called 'Fluffy.'

There was only one thing that annoyed me about that Sword-Boy, and I'm not sure that secretly I didn't like him all the better for it sometimes, and that was his admiration for this same lady. Now Mrs. Simpkin-Briston, known irreverently as 'Fluffy,' next to the American authoress, was my pet aversion on board that boat. As luck would have it, she formed the fourth in our cabin, so that I was bound to know much more of her than I ever wanted to know. She was far and away the most dressy woman on board—needless to say, most unsuitably dressy. Her get up was worthy of the Gaiety, and the worst of it was that it had seen its best days. Now nothing is so hopeless and tawdry as finery soiled. It wears such a horribly dissipated sort of look, and it's no use your trying to look nice and sweet and good in it. And then her hair was so dreadfully fluffy. Of course, all the ladies fought shy of her, but some of the men seemed to find her interesting to talk to. But her greatest friend was the less doddery of the two doddery old generals. He seemed to have succumbed to her fascinations somewhere en route to Marseilles, and they sat at the same table on board, much to the disgust of the friends who were with him, and had