Chains clanked with a noise the girl never noticed before; the tramp of hurrying men on the hurricane deck overhead sounded heavy and hollow.

There was a squeaking of chairs that was abominable when people gathered up books and wraps and staggered ungracefully towards the companion-way.

Altogether Miss Deane was not wholly pleased with the preliminaries of a typhoon, whatever the realities might be.
And then, why did gales always spring up at the close of day?
Could they not start after breakfast, rage with furious grandeur during lunch, and die away peacefully at dinner-time, permitting one to sleep in comfort without that straining and groaning of the ship which seemed to imply a sharp attack of rheumatism in every joint?
Why did that silly old woman allude to her contemplated marriage to Lord Ventnor, retailing the gossip of Hong Kong with such malicious emphasis?
For an instant Iris tried to shake the railing in comic anger.

She hated Lord Ventnor.

She did not want to marry him, or anybody else, just yet.