Almost at once she had comprehended that she was expected to write down her name and address, which she did, in slanting cobwebby lettering, perhaps a trifle laboriously.

Ruth Enschede, Hartford, Conn.

The address was of course her destination, thousands of miles away, an infinitesimal spot in a terrifying space.
She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mache kitbag at her feet.

In Europe or in America people would have smiled; but in Singapore--the half-way port of the world--where a human kaleidoscope tumbles continuously east and west, no one had remarked her.
She would never forget the agony of that first meal in the great dining room.

She could have dined alone in her room; but courage had demanded that she face the ordeal and have done with it.